The Fall of Night

by Christopher Nuttall

  Kundera stared at him, feeling as if he had been bludgeoned to death with a club. There was no diplomacy, just a calm recital of military power; the threats unstated, but barely hidden below the surface. There was no need to spell out the ‘or else’ – a little imagination suggested possibilities that would be too nightmarish for anyone to grasp. The Czech Republic was at his mercy.

  “I understand you,” he said, softly. “What do you want?”

  The genial host was back. “Splendid,” he said. The cold-blooded strategist returned. “The choice is simple; the first option is that you agree to sign an alliance with the Russian Federation, bringing the Czech Republic into a new alignment with Russia. The second option is that you refuse…in which case, those ten divisions will roll into Prague and impose our own order.”

  Kundera felt cold. “I would need more information,” he said. “What would be the terms of the alliance?”

  Nekrasov smiled, once again the genial host; Kundera wondered – and then pushed the thought aside because it was too terrifying – if Nekrasov was mad. He switched between friendliness and coldness with terrifying speed…and he controlled a vast country. Kundera’s mind refused to escape that thought; it kept running around in his head.

  “It’s quite simple,” he said, after a moment. “You would permit us to take what steps we deemed necessary when it comes to securing the territorial integrity of the Czech Republic. Your forces will assume a subordinate position to our own and accept orders from our commanders, assisting us to move forces through your territory into Austria, should it become necessary, and also prevent your people from blocking the roads, unless you want us to do it…?”

  Kundera shook his head.

  “Your foreign relations will be placed firmly in our hands and all other alliances will be dissolved,” Nekrasov continued. “You will continue to hold internal authority, but we will have the right to veto or suggest laws as we choose. You will permit us to take what steps we choose against those of your people who practice the Islamic faith. In time, your factories and people will become part of a new economic alliance, devoted to rebuilding the continent and once again creating a powerful European force.”

  Kundera tried for an even tone. “And what will you do for us?”

  “We will ensure that your government remains in power,” Nekrasov said, still genial. “Should your people refuse to carry out some of the steps we might take against the Muslims, we will be quite happy to carry them out for you; I’m sure that many of your people will welcome them. We will even consult with you before we use any of our new rights.”

  The words didn’t disguise the reality; Kundera knew exactly what he was being told – cooperate and collaborate, or your country will be crushed. The vague comment about ‘consultation’ meant nothing; once there was a Russian army in the middle of Prague, the Czech Republic’s independence would be at an end. He licked his dry lips, carefully marshalling his thoughts; he wanted to be clear on a few details before making any final decision…as if he held that right still.

  “I have three conditions,” he said, carefully. Nekrasov said nothing, only watched him as a spider might watch a fly, trying to escape a web. “The first one is that you do not require Czech soldiers to take part in any offensive operations against our allies…our former allies.”

  Nekrasov nodded. “That should be acceptable,” he said. There was a darker hint in his voice. “Next?”

  “Second,” Kundera said slowly, “I want a guarantee that Russian soldiers will behave themselves in the Czech Republic. The behaviour of Russian soldiers during the Cold War meant that there could be no lasting bridges built between us and you; they looted and raped at will.”

  “I will ensure that the commanders in the field know that such behaviour will not be tolerated,” Nekrasov said, after a long bitter moment. “It is a shame that Alex was not interested in such a posting; he can be relied upon in such matters.”

  He shook his head slowly. “Very well,” he said. “So…what is number three?”

  Kundera almost lost his nerve. “I do not want you to commit genocide against the Muslim population of my nation,” he said, taking a deep breath. He had a grim suspicion that that would be one of the demands that could not be discussed, or modified. “I have responsibilities to them as well as the others in the Republic.”

  Nekrasov looked at him for a long moment. “You have tolerated the…vermin who were responsible for atrocities like Belsan, Stalingrad and worse in my country,” he said. “The problem that faces both the Americans and ourselves took root in your countries; just ask the French if you don’t believe me. Do you believe that we will pass up a chance to get at them and burn the cancer out?”

  “You’re talking about living people,” Kundera almost cried. “They’re flesh and blood, not…cancer cells in a living body. They’re people too…”

  “So were the children that died in Stalingrad,” Nekrasov said. It was the cold-eyed one who looked down at him. “That is not up for discussion; we will not kill them all, but we will ensure that they can do no further harm. Will you sign the agreement?”

  Marina produced a sheet of paper from a hidden printer. Kundera scanned it rapidly; it had been updated already to reflect his requested compromises…all except the Muslim one. He looked into Nekrasov’s eyes and saw his future; he could sign, serve, and do the best he could for his country, which would become merely a subordinate state of the Russian Empire, or he would never return from Moscow. A Russian occupation government would move in, take over, and do whatever it liked to the helpless civilians caught in their grasp. He could try to do what he could to help his people, or he could make a stand on a point of principle…and make no difference whatsoever.

  Nekrasov was waiting patiently. “I agree,” Kundera said finally. The document was written in both Russian and Czech; he read them both and noted that they were the same. The bitter taste of ashes was in his mouth. He had gone to Moscow as Head of Government of an independent state; he would return as a Russian pawn. There was no longer any choice at all. “Where do I sign?”

  Chapter Thirty-Six: The Way Home

  Wars are not won by retreats

  Winston Churchill

  Brussels/Ostend, Belgium

  “Wake up, sweethearts,” a voice called from outside the door. “It’s time for breakfast!”

  Colonel Seth Fanaroff rubbed his back as he pulled himself off the floor and to his feet. The brothel they had found had accepted their story that they were lovers – in defiance of various US Army regulations on fraternisation – and had been quite happy to take American dollars once they had established a link-up with an American bank. The catch was that they had to share a room, and, as a gentleman, he had insisted on sleeping on the floor. Being a gentleman was starting to look like a really bad idea.

  “Time to get up,” he called, gently poking Captain Saundra Keshena in the shoulder before averting his gaze as she sat up, hands reaching for the pistol she had concealed under the pillow. She had been having nightmares about the desperate flight through the city to the brothel in the Red Light district; Fanaroff, who had been through several wars and dangerous situations, had taken it more in stride. “We have a long day ahead of us.”

  It was a lie, he thought; they had managed to get back in touch with the States, only to be told to sit tight and wait. They were the only two Americans, it seemed, to have survived the fall of the embassy; the United States would be looking for a way to extract them, but Fanaroff wasn't hopeful. The best plan he had so far was to wait for the Russians to arrive, make themselves known to the Russian commander, and ask for reparation. The Russians might have returned the crew of the ABM stations, but he didn’t know if they would be willing to repatriate two lone Americans in a city that had descended into chaos. Brussels was a confusing mass of factions; he didn’t understand even how the water supplies had come back on, let alone how the city intended to survive the next few weeks. Large parts of the city had
burnt in that first terrible day.

  He splashed a little water on his face; the madam – Madam Rose - had insisted that they conserve water as much as possible, even to the point of filling bathtubs with the liquid and forbidding more than basic washes; who knew what would happen to the water supplies in the future? One of the other groups, an Islamic group that had managed to establish itself, had attacked the Red Light district in a fit of holy zeal…and the criminals had kicked them out with extreme violence. The Red Light district held some of the nastiest characters in Brussels…and they had been, in their own way, patriotic. Every man was against his neighbour, but it was every inhabitant against an outsider; the police had never come into the Red Light district on official business. It wouldn’t have been healthy.

  Saundra was rubbing the side of her head. “Is there any news from home?”

  “No,” Fanaroff said, shortly. “It looks as if we have to stay here.”

  Saundra looked good as she dressed; his treacherous mind was too tired and sore to exercise proper discipline and banish the thoughts. It was only the two of them; they had remained chaste, but their relationship had developed well beyond senior-junior.

  Madam Rose met them as they descended the stairs. “Morning,” she said, shortly. Her face split into a strange leer. “There’s breakfast on the table; help yourself, and then get back to bed.”

  “Thank you,” Fanaroff said, as he took Saundra’s arm and guided her to the table. There was a massive pot of porridge on the table, something he had only had in England before; he took a small amount and filled Saundra’s bowl to the top. She needed her strength more than he did. “Any news from the outside?”

  “Very little,” Madam Rose said. “There was a call for you on the phone; they want you to call them back as soon as you have had your breakfast.”

  Fanaroff took a long breath. “Why didn’t you call us at once?”

  “I don’t interrupt my customers when they are using the facilities, even if they are well-paying customers,” Madam Rose said tartly. “People who come here come for privacy; they don’t come for my conversation.” She slapped her belly. “I may have a belly that people come miles to see, and a strong right arm that some men find impossible to resist, but they don’t come for my conversation.”

  And perhaps you wanted to try and get something out of them first, Fanaroff thought dryly. Madam Rose was a desperate woman, after all; her girls and herself would be caught in the path of the Russian advance, if what they had been told was true. Fanaroff was still having problems coming to grips with it, but if it was true, the German Army had been scattered and was in full retreat, assuming that it was still in existence. Fanaroff had reviewed the old war plans from the cold war; there would be no reinforcements from the other NATO allies, not now. The Germans were in real trouble.

  “I’ll call them after we have finished eating,” he said. He wasn’t that hopeful; as far as he knew, there were no American assets that could be used to extract them, and the British had their own problems. He had thought about trying to get into one of the airports and stealing an aircraft, but without any IFF transponder, one or the other side would probably shoot them out of the sky. “Is there any other news?”

  “I’m starting to think that it might be time to get out of the city,” Madam Rose said. “What about you?”

  Fanaroff couldn't disagree. The criminal gangs had secured vast food supplies – and the girls had an easy way of paying for them – but everyone knew that it couldn’t last. There seemed to be no government people trying to pull everything back together again…and it seemed an impossible task anyway. The city had collapsed into a dozen semi-independent fiefdoms; it reminded him too much of the old No Man’s Land Batman movie.

  But he said nothing. As soon as he had finished his breakfast, he picked up the satellite phone and carried it upstairs to their room, allowing Saundra to activate it while he remembered some of the identification words. The satellite phone might work using American satellites, but it was hardly a secure system; his controllers had been reluctant to give him too many details because the Russians might well be listening in to the transmissions. It made him long for the lost terminal; if he had had that, they would have had no problems at all in downloading information from the military datanet.

  “This is Fanaroff,” he said shortly, and recited a string of identification numbers. “I understand that you wanted to talk to me?”

  “Certainly,” a droll Texan voice said. “Who played George Washington in the university play you took part in back in 2010?”

  Fanaroff had been surprised the first time he had been tossed such a question, a moment’s thought had explained why. It would be harder for a Russian imposter to figure out the answer in time to matter. “That was Shawn O’Neil,” he said, remembering. Fanaroff had wanted that part; but he had lost the draw and played Arnold the Traitor instead. “Do you have anything useful for me?”

  “Friends of ours have been busy in Ostend,” the voice said, without bothering to comment on Fanaroff’s tone. “We have talked to them and they have agreed to pick you and your lady-friends up and get you back to mother if you get there within a few days. Failure to get there within five days may result in you being left to your own devices.”

  Fanaroff took a second to unravel everything. Something was happening at Ostend; he guessed that the British had secured the small port and city, and they were willing to extract him and his ‘lady-friends’ – perhaps Madam Rose and her girls as well, if she had talked to the controller first – if he made it there. He scowled; the real problem with improvising a code was that it would be easy to either make it blatantly obvious, or confuse friends as well as enemies.

  “I understand,” he said. If he were wrong, there would be a chance to steal a boat and set sail for England anyway. “Is there a lower limit?”

  There was a pause. “The day-tourists are moving in now,” the controller said finally. “I would recommend haste; mother may have popped her clogs earlier than we thought.”

  “I understand,” Fanaroff said again. “I’ll call you later.”

  He closed the connection and thought for a long moment, then turned to face Saundra. “If I understood that bastard properly, we have a chance to get out if we can make it to Ostend,” he said, grimly. “I guess that the invitation includes Madam Rose and her girls…if they will come with us, if not, just the two of us.” He grinned. “Unless you wish to stay, of course…”

  “Not bloody likely,” Saundra said. She looked less mussed than he did; Madam Rose would have made a fearsomely effective drill sergeant, unlike some commanding officers he’d met who had insisted on shaving every day, despite low water supplies. “I don’t want to stay in this place any longer.”

  “Come on, then,” he said. “Let’s go see Madam Rose.”

  He explained the situation as clearly as he could to her. “We have this one chance and you’re included in the offer,” he said. “We can’t let anyone else know, because there would be panic; are you interested in coming?”

  Madam Rose laughed. “I have been thinking about joining one of the boats leaving Belgium for England,” she said. “I’ll come with you, if the girls will come; if not, then…I can’t leave them here.”

  “She’s a very strange woman,” Saundra muttered, as Madam Rose headed off to organise the girls. She hadn’t liked the thought of staying in a whorehouse, even if it had been safe and even fairly secure; female soldiers and officers were rarely comfortable with the chain of brothels that appeared everywhere that soldiers lived and worked. “What will happen to her if she remains here?”

  “Die, probably,” Fanaroff muttered back. “Pussy is cheap in desperate times; someone might take the girls and leave her to die. This is her best chance to get out and she knows it.”

  There were nine girls in all; seven of them native to Belgium, one whose family had come from darkest Africa, and one who had been from an Arab family that had thrown her out for pr
emarital sex. She had been very lucky, the more so because Madam Rose had found her and offered her a job before she starved to death on the streets. She was apparently popular with the clients; Madam Rose had claimed with some pride that she brought in more money than the others put together. The conversation had gone downhill from there.

  “Jade wants to return to her family,” Madam Rose said finally. “The others are willing to come with us. We have a truck and enough fuel, I think, to reach Ostend; keep your weapons visible and we won’t have any trouble.”

  Fanaroff said nothing as the girls were loaded into the truck; Madam Rose herself took the wheel. They would be victims if they were caught by the Russians; he had seen some of the classified files of what had happened in Chechnya as a warning to all other Muslims in Russia and the CIS to behave themselves. There were rumours that the Russians had even begun a breeding program to breed loyal Russians who could blend in perfectly with Central Asia – and the new government had offered bounties and rewards to women who had more than three children who were pure Russian – and the girls would be treated as nothing more than whores. It was strange; most of the girls were quite well-educated, in their own way, and yet they had earned more lying on their backs rather than holding down a proper job.