Another Man's Freedom Fighter

by Joseph Carter

  A first flashlight came on, others followed.

  Pułaski summoned Bilinski, the duty officer, and the sergeant leading his protection detail. “Bilinski, I want you with me. We will go north and make our way to the Gyżicko command post”, he said.

  Bilinski objected that he had his cyber specialists here in Warsaw.

  “I know, but I need your insight into the hybrid war we are obviously fighting available to me at all times.”

  The duty officer got orders to hold the building as long as possible. He should contact Gyżicko and transfer central command responsibilities to the duty officer there. “Tell them to report any, repeat any, information from units in the field directly to me in addition to their standing orders for a state of war.”

  Pułaski and his small group left, all in body armor, carrying Polish MSBS 5.56K assault rifles, and backpacks with rations.

  ✽✽✽

  A Krymsk APC with an electromagnetic pulse generator, it looked like a long tube with a small satellite dish at its end, drove off. It had done its job and overloaded the building’s power network. The diesel generators hidden deep in the basement were now useless.

  The turret of a second Krymsk APC turned toward a third-floor window in the central wing of ulica Rakowiecka 4a. Its 30 mm cannon fired in rapid succession at the orange-red muzzle flashes in the dark. The dozens of shells tore through the window frame and hit the machine gun nest dead center. The two privates working the machine gun were killed instantly. Two GAZ Tigrs with machine guns mounted on top fired at the other muzzle flashes between the posts of the central wing and on the roof. Without much effect.

  The commander of the Krymsk ordered his driver to crush the gate. The 510 horsepower of the hybrid APC running on diesel would be enough to tear down the simple iron gate. They would not be able to get over the Czech Hedgehogs, anti-tank barriers made from steel I-beams. But they would get a better angle on the two pillboxes under the central wing. A few hits with the cannon would penetrate the concrete mini-bunkers.

  As the twenty-one-ton vehicle pressed against the gate, two RPGs flashed down from the roof and hit the turret of the APC. The effect on the armor was minimal, but the near-synchronous impacts created a loud explosion and a ball of fire that drew the attention of all the Russian special forces soldiers on the scene.

  ✽✽✽

  At the far end of the parking lot, Pułaski’s group hurriedly boarded the Enoks. The general’s prayers had been answered. Atop the right vehicle, he saw an MG3 with an ammunition belt fed into the side of the twenty-year-old weapon.

  As the noise of the explosion at the front gate rumbled through the central parking lot, the driver in the first Enok put the pedal to the metal and the 184 horsepower diesel roared.

  There was a gap between the north wing and the east wing, two pines grew there on a patch of grass. Beyond the small trees lay the parking lot of the geological museum.

  The five-ton vehicle uprooted the frail pines easily, crashed through the iron fence resting on a low brick wall and pushed an already beat up, white Opel Corsa out of the way. The little German car made a long leap backward into the museum wall. Its side windows shattered on impact.

  The two huge military vehicles turned left, away from the fighting on ulica Rakowiecka. They crashed down another fence leading to a parking lot between two residential buildings and pushed more cars out of the way. Their owners were probably up and maybe at their windows with that loud commotion on the next block. On ulica Batorego, the olive-drab cars made a right and continued east and north. They passed by the Botanical Garden beyond which the Belweder lay, the president’s seat. They could not make out anything from the distance and did not want to risk their escape from a city that had no doubt been infiltrated by a highly capable enemy force.

  Just as they turned left onto Wisłostrada, they saw the engine fire of two rockets near the horizon. The orange-red trails of flame seemed to close in toward them. Seconds later they could see the small speck of black that the air-to-air missiles were chasing. They made it out to be an F-16.

  “One of ours,” Bilinski said.

  The pilot tried hard to shake off his two tails. He launched flares which distracted one of the rockets. Then he made evasive maneuvers but eventually the second rocket exploded left of his aft fuselage, and the fifteen-million-dollar aircraft turned into a fireball. Debris fell into the river on a stretch almost as long as the city center. There was no chute, the pilot was definitely dead.

  As the two Enoks sped along the Vistula river on the empty six-lane highway, the first reports from Gyżicko came in. The duty officer there, a freshly promoted major, had relayed a summary of the last half hour’s events to Bilinski. Russian fighter-bombers had raided Gdynia and Hel naval bases, essentially wiping these installations out and sinking what few vessels were tied alongside. The majority of the Polish navy had been deployed to the Baltic to control vital shipping routes while their brothers in arms were fighting in Eastern Ukraine. First encounters with Russian submarines and air raids on Polish frigates had been reported.

  A diesel submarine claimed the first kill for the Polish Marynarka Wojenna. The Kilo class ORP Orzeł sunk the Russian electronic warfare vessel Syzran on her return to base in Kaliningrad.

  Land forces of considerable strength had crossed the border from Kaliningrad. Multiple Polish armored and mechanized forces stationed along the border of the Russian exclave had been deployed already and were engaged in a tank battle of proportions not seen since World War II had ended almost seventy-five years earlier.

  The Ukrainian General Staff had radioed a first situation report via shortwave, apparently, their only means of communication at the moment. Kiev had been hit with a similar cyber attack on the electrical grid and also the main communication hubs in the country had been hit with mid-range ballistic missiles. Large mechanized and armored forces crossed the Russo-Ukrainian border near Kharkiv bypassing much of the former People's Republics. They would try to encircle the Polish and Ukrainian forces there.

  Mariupol and Odessa in the south were reported as taken by Russian marine infantry and paratroopers. The Ukrainians essentially cried for help, unaware that the Polish were not at all better off.

  ✽✽✽

  The sun rose early here at the easternmost tip of the Central European Time Zone. Bilinski’s watch showed 0410 hours when it cast the first ray of new light over the horizon.

  They were doing close to sixty miles per hour, the heavy armored MPVs’ top speed. Fields with all sorts of crops flashed by. Occasionally, they would drive through a small patch of forest, but most of the time they were exposed. Flat, wide country all around. Pułaski did not like that. It would be another hour until they reached the thick forests of the Masurian country. Until then, all it would take them to get into trouble was being spotted by a helicopter crew or the pilot of a fighter plane. They had the MG3, but hitting a flying target out of a moving vehicle was only slightly more likely than winning the lottery.

  ✽✽✽

  The man who had just turned seventy was still a little sleepy when he crossed the living room on his way to the kitchen.

  His wife had got up at 5:00 a.m. like every morning during the week. Only on Sundays they ‘slept in’ until 8:30. After his wife had spent an hour in the study, they would walk over to the Lutheran cathedral to mass.

  The phone rang, the display of the Cisco phone showed the time, it was 05:45.

  “Hallo,” he answered slightly puzzled. Giving a name would be useless, only very few people knew this number, and nobody would call it at this hour without a good reason.

  “Guten Morgen, Herr Professor,” a male voice said in German on the other end. There was no hint at any kind of accent, which is quite unusual in itself as most Germans keep a trace of their home town’s dialect even when speaking Hochdeutsch.

  The professor knew this voice.

  “Guten Morgen, Herr Präsident,” he answered. His initial hesitation gave aw
ay his sense of worry to get a call at this time of day from this person. He and the Russian president had met dozens of times going back almost twenty years when the relations between Germany and Russia had been at a height. Also when relations started going south, the two had met at social side events of the G20 summits. Their encounters had always been friendly.

  “I am a little pressed for time, could you ask her to come to the phone, please?” The Russian president said this in a forcedly soft-spoken manner.

  Actually, she, the Bundeskanzlerin, already stood in the door.

  The professor, louder than necessary, said, “Dear, it’s the Russian president for you.”

  She took her time before she walked the five yards to the middle of the room. She took the receiver and said thanks to her husband, more for the president’s benefit than her husband’s.

  She had dealt with the dominant man on the other end more than she really cared for. In her experience, he always tried to intimidate her before making his actual move. Sometimes it worked. But, to be fair, sometimes it didn’t.

  She once bravely sat through a forty-minute double interview with him while his two Rottweilers sat at his feet. She had a horrible fear of dogs since her childhood which the Russian president knew full well.

  “Madam Chancellor, I apologize for the early call but in the hope to improve our relations I am telling you something now that normally our ambassador would tell you sometime later in the day. And I would also like to make a point that would probably not get across through a messenger,” the president said and made a deliberate pause.

  “Well, unusual or not, everything that is aimed at improving our countries’ relations is a welcome effort,” the chancellor said. She swallowed her usual figure of speech in such situations. ‘Schießen Sie los, fire ahead’ seemed inappropriate at this hour and with this person.

  “Very well. I have been informed that a military force has taken over key institutions in the capitals of Poland and Ukraine, also key military installations in those countries.” Again, he paused.

  The chancellor took a deep, audible breath. Before she could say anything, the president continued.

  “They are Russian airborne and land forces. We exercise our right to self-defense after the attack on our borders almost two weeks ago. I need not remind you of the grief this horrible act of aggression has brought upon our country.”

  The chancellor said nothing.

  “Our sole aim is to right a wrong. I personally gave orders to strike precisely at the military and political institutions of our enemies and keep civilian casualties to an absolute minimum.”

  The chancellor still listened silently.

  “Honestly, I sincerely hope to end the shooting war within a few weeks and hand back a functioning Poland to the world with minimal effects on the foreign investments in that country. German Volkswagen works in Poznań should continue to produce nice cars, German T-Mobile should continue to connect Poles to the world. We might suggest that the Polish government make a few changes in their foreign affairs and demilitarize to a level that is no longer a threat to the region. Und das ist alles.”

  The chancellor sat down on the large couch next to the phone.

  “I am deeply troubled, Herr Präsident. What you just told me amounts to a full-blown war on Europe and the world as a reaction to an unfortunate accident. However sad the deaths of the children and the other people were, this is in no way appropriate. You will have to expect NATO, and Germany, to stand by our allies. This call is a declaration of war.” Towards the end, she could hardly keep her cool, her voice went up.

  “Yes, I expected you to say that,” the president said. “See, this is why I called. The point I want to convey to you is the following. If a single tank, German or other, a single howitzer, German or other, even a single bullet crosses Germany’s borders to Poland, your country will be considered an enemy of the Russian Federation and war will come back to your country.” He paused to let that threat sink in.

  The chancellor sat on her beige couch, staring at her husband in wide-eyed horror.

  The president knew he had got his point across. Yet, he wanted to make sure it stuck. He continued, “I am quite sure that would be disastrous to your society. The Germans have worked so hard to make it impossible for their country to go to war ever again. When someone else takes it to your doorstep, you have no way to defend yourselves. I read your materiel report, your Klarstandsbericht. Very nice of your ministry of defense to put it on the internet every other year, that saves us a lot of work and money. You do not even have enough tanks rolling to defend the Oder-Neiße-line for five hours.”

  The chancellor knew this to be a fact. She herself had often enough said that Germany was ‘surrounded by friends’ and more than happily cashed in the peace dividend.

  The president was not done, yet.

  “Also, the protests you saw this past week were only a small show of our capabilities. We did not even mobilize these people, and yet, thousands of loyal Russophiles took to your streets. I am sure your security services by now have enough circumstantial evidence that suggests the mass assaults by migrants might be coordinated by someone in the background. I will save them a little work, too. Yes, they are. Our friends in Damaskus are returning a favor. To sum it up, if and when necessary, my services can mobilize hundreds of thousands throughout Germany within hours. The war we bring to your doorstep will be a civil war. A horrible one, one your oh so civilized and pacifistic people cannot even imagine. Not a single shot has to be fired by a Russian soldier. Beautiful, isn’t it.”

  “This is preposterous!” the chancellor shouted into the receiver so loud that her protection detail came running into the living room with their P99s out.

  “Hear me loud and clear,” the president shouted back. “Germany will, verdammt nochmal, keep out of this, or else we will obliterate your little heaven on earth once and for all.”

  Fifteen

  The secret command post of the Polish Armed Forces was hidden deep in the Masurian forests. A former East Prussian estate with huge red-bricked horse stables converted to an organic ostrich farm provided the official cover for the secret installation.

  In the beginning, during the early 2000s, that cover had seemed perfect. A large agrarian operation would explain the coming and going of large vehicles in the night. A stand selling the huge eggs at crazy high prices on the rural road had made sure that the locals would hardly ever come calling to ask about eggs or meat. But since the organic lifestyle also had started to boom in Poland, the operation had to be professionalized.

  The long-haired, bearded special forces soldiers guarding the facility still tried to keep people away. However, to keep up their appearances as hipster organic farmers they had to make some adjustments like building a log cabin near the road serving as a store.

  Tourists vacationing at the Masurian lakes in summer would stop and buy an ostrich egg for fun and steaks to grill on the terrace of their rented cabin. They also had a few ostriches running around a makeshift petting zoo. Unfortunately, the big birds hated being pet and would bite or kick the children. So a few sheep and a donkey had to be added to satisfy the kids’ innate urge to touch animals.

  The farm actually produced meat and eggs, and the soldiers even made a point of adhering to the standards of their organic certification. The output, however, was nowhere near what one would expect from a farm this size.

  Most of the special forces soldiers had done one or even two tours in Afghanistan. For them, the calm forests, the lakes in the area, and working with the animals was a dream posting. A clever colonel in personnel command even had made that posting a special program for men who had seen especially hard fighting and lost comrades in battle. His theory that this would avoid post-traumatic stress disorders and enable the men to be on active duty and recover at the same time seemed to bear out.

  Now, however, war had found them again. They were now all in battle dress and in the situation room, the centra
l part of a nuclear bunker under the barn. A large array of LED screens showed a map of the country and the positions and situation reports from all units in the theater. A communications and information management platoon worked the ten computer workstations in rotation. All were following their duty like clockwork. The weekly exercises had paid off. They knew they were the central information hub now, orchestrating the defense of their nation.

  One of the sheds on the farm above contained a hidden, very powerful antenna array including a satellite transmitter. The region, merely being a tourist destination had not suffered from the cyber attacks on Poland’s power grid. For the time being, the powerful diesel generators with fuel for four weeks of operation would not be needed.

  Outside, the guards used John Deere tractors to pull the roof structure off two wooden outbuildings. The construction of wood and tar paper was resting on wheels. As soon as the bolts holding them in place were removed, it was easy to slide the structure off. When the pyramidal structure hit the ground and shattered to bits, soldiers removed more bolts, and all four walls fell to the ground. Two fixed missile batteries appeared. They were armed with German Roland surface-to-air missiles.

  ✽✽✽

  Mark Sanders’ phone announced a new message on the encrypted TLKS messenger. It was from Svetlana and was very disquieting, it read ‘Need to talk immediately!’.

  It was 5:55 in the morning and Marc had not really slept well. He had woken up several times during the night from dreams that were an explainable product of the past weeks’ news broadcasts and his first-hand experience with the anti-Polish protests in Berlin. People wearing fur hats were following him and Ofelia around Berlin, simply looking at them, sometimes speaking among themselves in Russian. Not that Mark spoke any Russian, but in his dream, that’s what he thought they were speaking.