The Fall of Night

by Christopher Nuttall

  Stepanov appeared silently behind him; Shalenko sensed his presence and turned to face him. “Well?”

  “He broke, finally,” Stepanov informed him. A bloody carcass was being dragged out of the tent; Harris would be lucky to survive for another hour. “As far as he knew, all mobile units and ones that could get out of our clutches were to retire on Dorking and the other places along the London Defence Line; past that, he has no idea what the British command is planning.”

  “Tactical nukes, perhaps,” Shalenko said. It was a wild card; they didn’t know if the British military government had the nukes, or if they would use them in their own country. The President had warned the British that if nukes were used, they would start destroying British cities; Shalenko knew that the President wasn't bluffing. Did the British know that? Did they have any nukes to use? “See to it that he gets whatever medical care he needs; his men can be secured for transport back to the continent.”

  He paused. “And in a few days,” he said, “we move on Dorking.”

  “And then we win,” Anna said.

  ***

  Two days passed as both sides worked desperately to prepare for the final battle. Russian forces probed north-west into England, slowly clearing out traps and dug-in infantry and TA soldiers, fighting to the last to preserve their country. In some places, morale collapsed completely and soldiers deserted, heading out back to their homes, or deserting to the enemy; they were rapidly secured, interrogated, and dumped in massive prison compounds to await their fate at a later date. In other places, furious fighting broke out as British soldiers fought tooth and nail to hold a town or village, but the Russians had vast superiority in weapons and total ruthlessness; resistance was swiftly crushed by overwhelming force.

  Russian soldiers brushed up against the main defence line, exchanged shots, and fell back, expanding their area of control around London. Both sides knew that it was only a matter of time before the fighting flared up again in earnest, and prepared hard for that day. As the air lanes over London were closed by Russian aircraft, the citizens began to panic; some of them demanding peace at any price. The overworked police, volunteers all to a man or woman, did what they could to keep the lid on; they knew what would happen if the Russians won.

  The remainder of the country waited nervously to see who would win the coming battle. Planners on both sides calculated and recalculated the odds, comparing details like air control to precise knowledge of the terrain; everyone knew what happened when the armies finally met in open battle would be decisive. The army that the British had raised would be the last; if it lost, the war would be all over, bar the shouting. All over the country, some civilians remained where they were, watching events on CNN and a dozen other American media programs, cursing the limited details. The White House had invoked PATRIOT III, causing a storm of controversy; the legal wrangling over the question of how much of the British preparations they could show wouldn’t end until after the battle was decided, one way or the other. Wearing British uniforms that fooled no one, a handful of Americans joined the British armed forces; their planes, technically non-combatants, would be a vital part of the RAF’s last throw of the dice.

  All around the country, people waited; rumours spread rapidly. Prince Harry had returned to his unit in its hour of need, some said; others remembered how the Prince had never been permitted to serve in Iraq and dismissed the rumour, adding others. The Royal Family had fled, rats leaving a sinking ship; the remains of Britain’s noble families had joined them. The Russians were going to slaughter all the Muslims; the Russians were going to slaughter all the Jews; the Russians were going to rape every man, woman and child they encountered…

  Escape seemed an impossible dream; there was nothing left to do, but wait…

  And listen to rumours.

  ***

  Major-General Charles Langford saluted as the group of soldiers paraded in front of them, before they marched off to the front line. They were young, many of them barely out of their teens; a handful in the strange grey-area of age where technically they should never have been recruited into the Army, but the Army had been so desperate for new recruits that they had been accepted…and for many of them it had been the making of them. They wore their uniforms with pride, some of them wearing unit insignia that had been lost long ago, under one government or another. The politicians hadn’t understood; when they amalgamated regiments such as the Highlanders, or the Black Watch, they were killing something important. Men might think of fighting for their country, but instead…the factor that would keep them in the front lines was loyalty to their fellows, or a reluctance to run in front of them. They were the finest that Britain could produce…

  He had lied to them, of course, and he had hated himself for it. He had told them that they had a chance, and that many of them would survive the coming battle; the latter, at least, was a lie. The SAS and other intelligence agencies had worked hard to slip operatives into Occupied Europe, where they had reported on the registrations, the employment, the rations, the brutal crushing of protests, peaceful or otherwise…there was very little hope for them all. The warning had been simple; if you are a soldier, or a policeman…you have to hide and remain hidden, or you vanished. The Americans had sent images of the camps in Occupied Europe, and the work camps in the depths of Russia; that was the fate that awaited them all if they lost and were captured. There was no hope…

  They’d consulted with the Americans, at length, looking for another solution. There wasn't one; even if the Americans could spare the forces to help Britain, there was no way that those forces could arrive in time. Even if they did, the fighting would devastate Britain from end to end…with no guarantee of victory. The Battle of the Mediterranean had warned the Americans of the dangers of relying on their own fleet defences; it was just possible that an American carrier battle group would suffer the same fate as Admiral Bellemare Vadenboncoeur. They would be looking at a war that would make the Second World War look like a tea party, fought against the one thing America hadn’t faced since 1945 – a fairly equal opponent. There was no political support for the war; President Kirkpatrick might have cost herself the chance at winning a second term, just for supporting Britain as much as she had…

  And how had it all happened? In hindsight, it had been perfectly clear; they had known much about what the Russians could do, and what their capabilities actually were…they just hadn’t put everything together. The Russians had boosted their military forces before and there had been panic, but every time, they had merely been shaking their fist, until the day they came rolling over the border. Europe had believed that they had moved past the days when conflicts were settled by armed force; they had been deluding themselves. They had had the choice between the American security umbrella, at its political price, or building EUROFOR up into a respectable force…and they had chosen, instead, to stick their heads in the sand. The cost…

  Langford stared down at his hands. They all would pay the cost of neglecting the defences. One way or another, matters would be settled soon…

  It wouldn’t be long now.

  Chapter Fifty: The Second Battle of Dorking, Take One

  I can hardly look a young man in the face when I think I am one of those in whose youth happened this degradation of Old England. One of those who betrayed the trust handed down to us unstained by our forefathers.

  George Chesney

  Near Dorking, United Kingdom

  “They’re coming,” the aide said. Major-General Charles Langford nodded; a week of waiting and preparing for the Russian offensive had come to an end. “The SAS are reporting heavy Russian forces moving towards Dorking from their bases.”

  Langford took a long breath. He would be running the battle from a carefully-prepared command tent, one with direct links to both the CJHQ and the different units of the surviving British army; the telephone system was impossible for the Russians to detect in operation. As the Russians tightened their control over the air, anythi
ng transmitting a signal had been targeted and destroyed, a sharp lesson in what happens when SHORAD was neglected. The handful of American units did what they could, but they weren’t enough to make a difference; Langford wasn’t sure if anything would make a difference.

  The Russians had slowly secured their grip over Kent and the southeast of England, expanding their control and making it much harder for Special Forces to operate, even through the SAS was working wonders in delaying tactics. Their bases had expanded and as they had brought a port back into service, so had their forces; there was no way that their supply lines could be interdicted any longer. The handful of surviving Royal Navy units had been pulled back to take part in the final evacuation, but the Russians were still pressing at them; Langford knew that more ships would be lost before it was all over.

  He could have gone on one of the ships, he supposed; the thought had been tempting, even though it would have been the coward’s way out. He could make it to one of the ships even if the battle was lost, but he had made up his mind; whatever happened, he would face it in the country he had become leader of, so unexpectedly. He had made his plans; all that remained was to carry them out and remain strong.

  It wouldn’t be long now.

  “Send the general signal to all men,” he said. “Tell them…to fight like mad bastards and give them hell.”

  ***

  The Russian tankers peered nervously out at the English countryside as they advanced, watching out for ambushes, mines, or other surprises that the British might have left in their path. They had learned to be careful in Chechnya, but the British had a few surprises of their own, including a handful of mines that looked harmless, or devices that somehow burned incredibly hot and burned through heavy armour as if it was nothing more than plastic. The Americans had supplied it, some of the tankers whispered, as they drove onwards towards the British lines. One day, perhaps there would be a chance to settle scores with them as well.

  High overhead, the first flight of Russian bombers headed west, their targets already preset and designated for attention. Their bomb bays had been loaded with heavy bombs; they now broke into attack runs and headed towards the British positions. Russian spotters and penal soldiers, volunteers trying to work weeks off their sentences, had penetrated the British positions and reported back; many of them were caught and killed, but others survived long enough to warn the Russian pilots of new targets. The bombs began to fall…

  Further back, Russian artillery was already beginning to fire, targeting the British lines and the dug-in infantry in towns and villages. Flames spread rapidly as the soldiers drove for cover, the work of centuries being shattered by Russian guns as the Russians advanced; they braced themselves and crawled forward to the newer trenches they had dug to await the Russian ground forces. The British prepared themselves as best as they could for the final battle, carefully concealed tanks and guns becoming active and waiting for targets. Everything depended upon holding the line.

  ***

  “We don’t fall back,” Colonel Stuart Robinson said, as the Company dug in and prepared to face the Russian attack. This time, they knew that they would be attacked; this time, it would be different from any number of skirmishes right across the continent. “Whatever happens, we don’t fall back.”

  “Understood,” Sergeant Ronald Inglehart said. He barked orders to the men holding the trench system; hundreds of man-hours had gone into preparing it as a deadly and well-hidden surprise for the Russians. The noise of Russian guns was getting louder; the handful of British guns would remain in reserve until they had targets right where they wanted them. The Russians would have difficulty assaulting their position with tanks; they would have to come face to face with the British soldiers as they fought. “We will hold.”

  Robinson touched the medal he wore on his chest. The Army had done the best it could for wounded soldiers, including shipping many of them to heavily-defended Iceland under American care, but he knew that escape was probably impossible. He had asked Hazel to take the opportunity of a shot on an evacuation ship, but she had refused; how could she leave him? She was safe, for the moment, but it still worried him; what would the Russians do to her if they caught her? Reports said that the Russians cracked down hard on unsanctioned atrocities, and they had certainly captured more than a few penal soldiers who had been arrested for rape, but Hazel had thrown a spanner into their plans. The Russians carried grudges; the very war itself was proof of that.

  “Yes,” he agreed. He peered through the camouflage down towards where the Russians would have to appear when they attacked. Everyone was certain that the Russians would come to confront the remains of the mobile British Army, the remaining force left on Britain itself; the bombers that had passed overhead and attacked Dorking were proof enough that the planners had called that one correctly. They could see the fires raging upwards from their distance; he didn’t want to think about what could happen if the Russians turned those firebombs on civilians. If the line broke, the British civilian population would be at the mercy of the Russians. “We will not break.”

  The sound of high explosives was getting closer as the first of the Russians appeared, moving carefully forward and looking for traps. By now, they all knew how to spot a penal soldier from the slumped shoulders, the absence of weapons or rank insignia, and the suicidal actions. The Russian was crawling forward, completely unarmed; Robinson felt a moment of sympathy before hardening his heart and muttering a command for the sniper to take the Russian down. The Russian twitched once and lay still; the heat of the air seemed to suppress any noise he might have made, or perhaps it was the noise of the battle in the far distance that was concealing his cries. Other Russians appeared, crawling forwards; they were armed and fired as they slipped from cover to cover, hunting for the British sniper who had killed their former colleague.

  They don’t know we’re all here, Robinson realised. The Russians clearly thought that they were dealing with a lone SAS sniper, like the one who had killed a Russian General two nights ago when the idiot had gone driving through barely-secured territory; their tactics were designed to beat the sniper out of hiding, not assault a dug-in infantry force. He muttered commands to Inglehart, who passed them along the line; hold your fire and wait.

  The Russians came closer and closer, their bullets cracking through the air well above the heads of his men, the universe shrinking to the point where it held only the Russian company and the British company, men who were about to kill and be killed. Robinson felt deadly calm as he took aim, considering his targets carefully; a green-clad Russian officer, waving his men on with one hand, seemed the best possible choice. He used hand signals himself, issuing orders to the mortar crews; those weapons, at least, they had plenty of rounds to fire at the Russians. Time ticked by…

  “Fire,” he shouted, and fired down at the Russian. He had no business in the line of fire himself, but he was damned if he was abandoning his men now, and it was a chance to hit back for all Hazel had suffered since he had gone off to war. It seemed a dream now; the universe replaced by endless war as Russians were caught in the stream of bullets, or threw themselves to the ground as British firepower poured onto their locations. The dull thumping of mortars could be heard as the soldiers fired the antipersonnel rounds into the Russian positions, slaughtering hundreds of Russians; the remainder scattered back and returned fire as best as they could. The British mowed them down mercilessly.

  Robinson threw his head back. “Plaza-toro,” he shouted, words that would hopefully mean nothing to the Russians. “Plaza-toro!”

  All along the line, most of the soldiers scooped up their weapons and hauled them away, heading towards the second set of trenches. A handful remained, brave volunteers; Robinson would have liked nothing better than to stay with them, but he knew his duty. He ran from the trenches as something changed in the air pressure…and then a mighty series of explosions blew him to his knees. The Russians had fired heavy guns, aiming them directly onto thei
r positions; shrapnel and cluster bombs, even small mines, flew everywhere. Robinson kept his head down and watched his feet carefully; here and there, a soldier screamed as a tiny mine detonated, blowing off their legs and crippling them for life. It was easy to see why people had wanted such weapons to be banned, but in the end…the Russians had cared nothing for the ban.

  A British MLRS rapid-fired a stream of rockets in reply, arcing over his head as the soldiers stumbled and crawled to the second set of trenches. It seemed like a nightmare, or something out of the First World War; the looming presence of a Russian tank, trying to flank them, underlined the strange nature of war in the new world. Inglehart blasted it with a Knife before the Russian could do more than fire a long burst of machine gun bullets at the fleeing soldiers; the Russian tank exploded into fire and died rapidly. Russian gunners were trying to target the MLRS; Robinson prayed that the crew had managed to move their vehicle before it was too late. The sound of shouts in Russian could only mean one thing; the Russians were in hot pursuit.

  “Get into position, you worthless bastards,” Inglehart was shouting, as the soldiers scrambled to obey. A handful of wounded were being carted away by medics, trying to get them to one of the evacuation ships before the Russians caught them; several more were refusing to leave and were preparing to join the final stand. “I want you to kill every god-damned Russian who pokes his dick over that crest, got that?”