'Advance to Contact' (Armageddon's Song)

by Andy Farman

  The wind was blowing straight along the Thames from the east and into the right side of her face, freezing her ear and depositing snowflakes down her neck.

  Once she had muffled herself against the elements as best she could with her scarf Janet pulled her coat hood up, holding its right side extended as a wind break with one knuckled, frozen hand she hunched against the freezing wind and hurried to work.

  Turning into South Colonnade, and into the icy wind, she did not see the man in thick padded jacket bearing the logo of a firm of lift engineers. They bumped shoulders and she opened her mouth to apologise, as commuters do in such situations. He mumbled something equally automatic that was lost in the wind, shrugging the strap of a heavy canvas bag higher onto his shoulder before tugging on the peak of his baseball cap, which Janet took to be a rather quaint gesture as she continued on to the entrance of the imposing glass tower where she worked.

  The lift engineer gritted his teeth in annoyance at the collision, which had almost caused him to drop the bag with its heavy and irreplaceable instrument. He had tugged the peak of his cap further down across his face and made it appear to be an act of apology, backed up with something suitably trite. The cause of his discomfort had responded in similar fashion and went on her way.

  He watched surreptitiously for a long moment for any indication that it had been anything but accidental, and then satisfied he resumed his own journey.

  Thirty minutes later the engineer emerged from a small van liveried with the lift company logo inside a lockup garage containing a single saloon car. Securely closing and locking the large double doors behind him he took a laptop from the saloon cars boot and set it up on an oil stained worktop at the back of the garage. His breath fogged in the frigid cold of the garages interior. From the canvas work bag he extracted what appeared to be a large cordless electric drill with an oversized battery pack. A USB cable was plugged into one of the laptop ports at one end whilst the other slotted into an innocuous looking recess above the drills trigger guard. His fingers tapped a few keys before leaving the laptop to carry out the command he’d given it, turning his attention to a rather less high tech item.

  Close to one wall of the garage a grimy oil trap, like a giant roasting tray, sat upon the cold concrete floor. Within it rested a large and equally filthy engine block wrapped around with chain and above that a sturdy steel ring was bolted to a roof girder. From the back of the small van he took a set of steps, pulley, hook and chain. The harsh metallic sound of the chain and pulley sounded until he hoisted the engine several feet clear of the ground and moved aside the oil trap to reveal a safe set in the floor. Muscles knotted as he unlocked and then lifted the heavy door before stepping back and stripping off all the lift company’s clothing except the pair of snug leather gloves on his hands. He was shivering hard by the time he had checked the laptop had completed its task and disconnected the drill, wrapping it carefully in the padded jacket before kneeling to place the bundle in the safe. The clothes and canvas bag followed them into the safe, which was then closed, locked and concealed as before. His teeth chattered as he placed the chain and pulley into the saloon cars boot. The steps were returned to the van, which he locked with keys he concealed on a hook behind the worktop. Quickly dressing into a smart business suit and topcoat taken from the back seat of the saloon he fought to stop the shivering and looked about carefully for anything amiss. Apparently satisfied, the garage doors were unlocked to allow the saloon to be backed out into the snow and then closed securely and locked once more.

  The ‘engineer’ removed a glove long enough to test the temperature of the air issuing from the cars heating vents. The air was icy so he cancelled the airflow to all but the screen and sat patiently for five minutes, until the snowflakes that had settled on the bottom of the windscreen began to melt.

  Turning the fan back on and allowing the warm air to chase away the shivering he put the car into gear and drove the short distance to the Mile End Road, which he followed away from the City.

  Forty minutes driving later and he pulled the car into a lay-by, collected the laptop and a holdall off the back seat and carried them through a gap in the hedge bordering the road. There was very little traffic on the road and no one at all in the fields, a fact he was careful to verify before crouching behind a holly bush and assembling a satellite transmitter from the holdall. The same USB lead was plugged into the transmitter that he pointed twenty degrees above the northern horizon. One thousandth of a second was all it took to transmit the results of two hours in the snow traversing and bisecting the banking and business estate, covertly mapping the site by means of concealed ultrasonic ‘radar’.

  On returning to the car he looked at his watch, noting that he had completed the hurriedly ordered assignment with eleven minutes to spare. He wondered how the remainder of his team had fared up in Scotland and whether they would return before the arrival of orders for yet another task.

  Russia

  The Nighthawk was only fifty feet above the sea as it approached the coast, the plasma screen covering the cockpit windows was showing only the information the on-board systems already knew of prior to take-off.

  Their radar was switched off, rather than merely at standby, and with no external data feeds from other sources, the information they held related only to fixed locations. No air or sea threats were displayed, just land based and at least a week old.

  The passive infra-red sensors that peppered the airframe were at the moment adding nothing to that which was already displayed, and the crew both hoped that was good news.

  The waters of the Cheshskaya Guba, enclosed by the mainland on two sides and the Kanin Peninsula to the west, was choppy with spray being whipped off the wave tops by the arctic wind.

  Major Caroline Nunro’s hand rested next to the side stick, she let the nav system fly the aircraft for now but she was ready to take over instantly. Their course was straightforward for the first 527 miles after making landfall, it only got complicated once they approached the Volga/Baltic Waterway, from there on in the flying was all hands on, as they skimmed the weeds the nearer to the enemy capital they got.

  “We’ve got company…infra-red source at our 4 o’clock high position.” Patricia wished that they had even slightly more positive data available other than, ‘there’s something warm over thataways’. If her instruments suddenly indicated a very hot source they would trip the missile launch warnings, but she still would have liked to know what it was, what it was capable of, and the height, course and speed of the ‘warm something’.

  Caroline keyed in a new altitude, and the Nighthawk lost another precious fifty feet. She wasn’t happy about it, it would only take one unrecorded radio mast or the Russian equivalent of the Giant Redwood and they’d all be toast, but she waited until five minutes after the IR source had vanished before bringing them back to their original altitude.

  One of the features of the ‘At a glance’ system was its ability to show the crew when radar was ‘painting’ them and when they were still undetected. When there was no radar energy pulsing at the airframe, the extremities of the transparent plasma screen that lined the cockpit windows were tinged violet. As radar energy was detected the colour changed, in a reverse of the spectrum according to the level of energy. Yellow was the highest level of energy they encountered on their way in, but their route had been planned to avoid all radar sites and areas that could be expected to have mobile air defence systems.

  North of the Nighthawk the B2s continued on toward Alaska, staying clear of the coastline as they tanked one another. KC-135 Extenders would top off their tanks over Alaska, and from there they would turn south. In an epic flight the B2s would stay aloft with tanker support until their circuitous flight brought them to Edwin Andrews Air Base on Mindanao, and they would touch the ground for the first time since leaving RAF Kinloss in Scotland.

  The other F-117 turned about and retraced their steps, taking a long drink courtesy of the Danish air force tanke
rs, before crossing the Moray Firth to Kinloss. The aircraft that rode shotgun had not released a single war shot, which was good news for the operation.

  Two hours after crossing the coastline, Caroline Nunro taxied off the tarmac of the forest strip and into the shelter of the trees where the waiting Special Forces troops covered the airframe with camouflage nets and set about refuelling. Patricia Dudley supervised the operation whilst Caroline released their passenger from the confines of the bomb bay, and checked their ordnance was okay.

  She felt a presence at her side and turned to find the Captain who commanded the special forces troops, and their CIA contact, and shook hands before allowing the Captain to round up Pat and Svetlana, after which they followed him to a small hut where they changed into civilian clothes.

  The CIA rep was an elderly man, a local who had been a sleeper for the Americans since the sixties; he briefed them on the current situation inside Russia before leading them to his old truck where all four climbed up into its cab.

  The drive to the safe house was not without risk, there was a curfew in place but most of the internal security troops were operating around the centres of population in the hours of darkness.

  The elderly contact drove carefully, only using dipped headlights, and not when sky-lined on the tops of rises along the road.

  They were negotiating a bend on the side of a steep hill when coming fast around it, on their side of the road, a Gaz jeep appeared. It swerved on seeing them and skidded, striking the stone wall at the roads edge and sending blocks bouncing down the hillside.

  The road was blocked and the jeeps front wing was crumpled and bent, one wheel overhung the slope and rusty water was pouring from its rendered radiator.

  The elderly contact was ashen faced as he brought the truck to a stop.

  Caroline had been flung forward but caught herself.

  “Oh Sh..!” was all she managed to voice before Svetlana’s hand clamped over her mouth, stifling the exclamation in English before she was able to voice it.

  Two antennae whipped back and forth on the jeep with the suddenness of the vehicles halt. After a second, a section of wall toppled, its stone blocks joining the others careering downhill.

  The jeeps driver clambered out of the far side, careful not to join the masonry now beginning to splash into a river at the bottom of the hill. But from the back climbed a Field Police Colonel, reaching across his body to unbutton the flap on his holster and draw the service pistol from it.

  The accident was not of their making, but they were out during curfew and their pass would not hold up long should the official whose forged signature authorising the pass be summoned to the telephone from his bed.

  Svetlana was wearing a long skirt, buttoned all the way down the front, and a tight fitting seaman’s wool polo neck jumper beneath her heavy coat.

  She tore off the coat and hurriedly unbuttoned the skirt. Pushing Pat aside to squeeze passed she stepped down into the road from the truck’s cab giving both men a view of shapely legs and a naked hip. She ran over to the jeep, her boots stiletto heels clicking on the road surface and her face held an expression of mortification; she was gushing rapid fire apologies as she presented the Field Policemen with a vision of beauty in distress.

  In the cab the two American’s watched, confidently awaiting the ‘Svetlana Effect’ to work its magic.

  The Field Police Colonel cocked the pistol and extended his arm, pointing it directly at Svetlana who was but ten feet away and screamed at her to raise her arms and get on her knees.

  To avoid a tumble down the hillside the driver climbed onto the bonnet of the jeep and Svetlana, apparently in shock and therefore not hearing the menacing commands went to help him, not realising her danger or even looking at the officer who was now closing one eye as he took aim at the side of her head. She reached both arms up to assist the driver, to steady him as he jumped down to the safety of the roadway.

  Quite unnecessarily her arms went about him as he landed, her body merged with his.

  Two gunshots rang out, so close as to almost merge together.

  The whirring sound of a ricochet disappeared into the night, a scar in the tarmac next to Svetlana from the Colonels sidearm, and the officer fell backwards.

  The driver swung a brutal backhand but she saw it coming and leaned in, grunting as the knuckles caught the side of the back of her head but swinging her right at his face.

  He roared as the hot muzzle of Constantine’s zip gun smashed into his nose, breaking it. He caught Svetlana’s wrist in his meaty left hand before she could swing again.

  He was a powerfully built man, used to rough house fighting and he squeezed, causing the Russian girl to gasp in pain and drop the weapon. His right fist came up in an uppercut aimed at the girls jaw but she jerked her head back out of the way, and brought her right knee up sharply, driving it towards his groin.

  He allowed the momentum of the failed uppercut to help twist his hips and the knee strike missed but Svetlana brought the limb back down, down against his lower leg, running the edge of her boots outstep against his left shin and driving the stiletto heel into the top of his foot.

  He gasped in pain as the hard leather edge stripped the skin away from his shin and roared with anger as the heel broke small bones in his foot, but his grip did not lessen, he pulled and the girl seemed to stagger, completely out-matched in strength. He twisted her off balance and turned her back-on to him. The right arm came across with the intention of locking off against her throat and crushing her windpipe but she went right on turning; her head came back hard to smash into his mouth. Once, twice, three times her head pummelled into his face. The lower lip was mashed and pierced by broken teeth and her knee rose and fell again, this time bones in his right foot broke under the impact of the long thin heel. Her free hand helped her left shoulder underneath his left armpit before gripping his arm, and then she bent, twisted her hips and as his bulk left the ground she straightened and twisted more, sending him over her shoulder. He let go her wrist as his body went inverted but Svetlana kept hold of that arm, ensuring that he could not land rolling and come up fighting. He landed hard and on his back, the breath driven from his lungs and eyes staring, lower face smeared in blood from the broken nose and gasping for air through smashed teeth, helpless as a fish out of water.

  Svetlana bent, unholstered the pistol on his belt, cocked it and unceremoniously shot him in the chest and head before turning to the fallen officer.

  She walked up to the Colonel, a large patch of blood over the area of his solar plexus. He raised an arm weakly, wrist cocked and palm open, and he tried to speak but she fired twice in rapid succession before he could voice whatever it was he meant to say. The sound of the gunshots echoed off the hillsides.

  She turned back to the old truck, not looking at the pistol as she made if safe with practiced ease and reached behind, tucking it into her skirt next to her spine.

  “Don’t just sit there, help me!”

  She retrieved the zip gun and the officers’ pistol, handing that last item to their CIA contact and telling him to move down the road a ways and keep a lookout along the route the jeep had come.

  It is not called ‘dead weight’ for nothing, and it took all three women to haul the bodies into the jeep, strap them in to prevent the bodies floating to the surface and then push it off the road onto the steep slope.

  With a last straightening of the wheel Svetlana leant in and released the handbrake, jumping back quickly as the jeep began to roll down the hill.

  Its impact with the river was unexpectedly loud.

  They stood there panting with exertion, staring down hill.

  “Good.” said the Russian girl.

  Pat and Caroline turned about to face her open mouthed at the seemingly cold remark, in as much shock at the sudden chain of events as of being witness to the violence meted out by someone they had believed to be mere eye candy, intelligent no doubt but ultimately eye candy incapable of such cold
blooded and applied violence.

  “What?”

  Svetlana pointed upwards and the two American air women followed the finger and saw snowflakes.

  “With luck it will hide the evidence for a while.” Svetlana said and then hurried over to the truck. “Come on, we need to get out of here before they are missed.”

  The remainder of the journey was in silence.

  On arrival at the safe house nearer the capital Svetlana gave the contact a package and instructions, before he continued on into Moscow, after which a satellite phone was assembled, just long enough to send a single code word.

  Petergensfeld, Belgium: Same time.

  First contact with the soviet airborne brigade was made by the local police, the fire fight between the crew of the patrol car and half a dozen paratroops was short, but the policemen got a message out by radio that airborne troops had landed in force.

  An hour later the advance platoons of the brigade began engaging the security company around the depot, the heaviest weapon the paratroopers had was mortars, but they had weight of numbers and held a 13-1 advantage over the NATO defenders.

  SACUER evacuated with his staff down the mile long tunnel that took them through to the next valley, after destroying all the equipment that could not be removed. An infantryman by trade, General Allain insisted that none of his staff get too comfortable being in one place, relocating was a well-practised drill. Despite all that, they had a problem starting the tractor unit for the miniature railway which delayed them by ten minutes, but the blast doors closed behind them as the entourage made good its escape at 20mph down the slight gradient. At the far end the computer base units and other essentials were loaded into elderly but well maintained M113 armoured personnel carriers. The entrance to the escape tunnel was a dummy pumping station, beyond that lay a gravel track that ran along one side of the steeply forested valley. A blast door yawned open on hydraulic rams to reveal the interior of the grey concrete shell that concealed the tunnel existence.