by Andy Farman
“Good morning Jamie, thank you for calling me so promptly. Do you know what has happened yet?”
“I would have called you sooner, but I was off duty. As you requested I kept the presence of this operation strictly to myself. I was off duty when this came in, as I said. Angus MacDonald…my Assistant Chief, was informed of the multiple murders and of the location, but of course the address meant nothing to him.”
They climbed inside an unmarked Range Rover, which immediately pulled away.
“Run me through the sequence of events, if you would please Jamie.”
“You will appreciate that I knew only that you told me there were some special people living in a safe house on my turf and there was an on-going intelligence connection with the RAF station here?” He looked at Arnie Petrucci, who remained poker faced and offered nothing by way of insight into what was an American run operation of the greatest secrecy.
The Commissioner nodded in agreement. Even he did not know what was happening with the Russian officer and young woman who had alerted the west to the enemy’s intention to nuke the capital cities and defence establishments in various countries.
“At 0935hrs this morning, the driver of an express train to Inverness reported a body falling from a bridge in front of his train; he also stated that he saw another man on the bridge, who he believes was carrying an assault rifle of some description. Had he not seen the weapon…or what he took to be a weapon, then he would have stopped, but as it was he continued on into Forres and alerted the British Transport Police, BTP called us and we sent in a tactical firearm's team. They confirmed the body side of it, and found a Met issue MP-5 beside the line before backtracking footprints in the snow. A topcoat containing two full MP-5 magazines in the pockets was found, a number of spent cases, both 9mm and 7.62mm, a blood trail and three separate sets of prints leading back to the house, the one you informed me of.”
The Range Rover reached the Guardroom at the entrance, and they all had to identify themselves to a steely-eyed air force policeman, who was being covered by a ‘Rock Ape’, a member of the Royal Air Force Regiment.
When he was satisfied that they were not well-disguised enemy deep cover operatives fleeing the area, the Range Rover was allowed to continue.
“In the rear garden they found the body of your Constable Stokes, dead of a single gunshot to the head…he was identified by his warrant card that was beside his body, he appears to have been hurriedly searched. The front of the house contained more bodies, Police Constable Pell and an as yet unidentified male in the hallway, plus an unidentified female on the doorstep…and Mr Tafler on the garden path. With the exception of the woman, all had died from gunshots. The woman had died as result of her throat having been crushed…there was another blood trail in the lane at the front, but so far we have not found whose blood it was, nor that of the other one along the route back to the house.”
No mention had been made of Major Bedonavich nor Svetlana Vorsoff’ as having been identified and the Commissioner was about to ask for the description of the woman whose body had been found, but Arnie Petrucci nudged him, shaking his head almost imperceptibly, because he alone amongst them knew whose body it wasn’t.
It was the CIA man who asked the next question though. “The body on the tracks, was there any identification and can you describe the body?”
The men and women of the Central Intelligence Agency, despite what Hollywood would have us believe, do not have regular contact with scenes of violence or tragedy. In his entire career the most active ‘spook’ will only see a tiny fraction of the blood and gore that a street copper may see whilst going about his daily business. He or she would not know, or have seen what becomes of a body once a train has run it over.
“Mr Petrucci, the underside of an express train houses a great number of metal protrusions, all spinning at high revolutions. At this time we do not even know what the sex of the dead person was.”
Arnie Petrucci did not comprehend what the Chief Constable was trying to tell him though. “Well can you at least give me an approximate height and age?”
“Sir…the largest piece of that body on the line would fit into your hip pocket…no sir, I cannot approximate an age or height.”
Petrucci was silent whilst he took that in, and decided that if the offer were made to go down on the track to see for himself then he would politely decline. However, it was vitally important to establish the identity of the body, for if it was not that of Major Bedonavich then it would mean that he could be in enemy hands, and the details of the Russian operation compromised.
“The identity must be discovered as soon as possible Jamie, how long will your laboratories take to do a DNA test?”
“Do you have someone in mind…and a DNA sample to compare against?”
They did indeed have DNA samples from both the Russian’s, and he nodded emphatically.
“Twelve hours then, sir.”
The Range Rover passed through Kinloss and crossed over the rail line at the level crossing outside town and continued to the A96(T), which they followed for several miles before turning onto a minor road, and eventually arriving at the bottom of the lane that led to the house. A police car was blocking access to all vehicles and the curious.
“From here we walk gentlemen,” the Chief Constable informed them, and then adding for the American’s benefit. “Sticking strictly to the marked channel, this is a crime scene.”
A chilled constable with a crime scene log in his hands checked the two policemen through, and then it was the CIA officers turn.
“Special Agent Hoover…” he informed the young man with a straight face, and produced FBI ID. “…initials, J, E.” he added with a warm smile, enjoying the joke but having no intention of the Scottish justice system ever knowing who had really been at the scene. The young constable was dutifully writing down the details without question, when an older constable stepped up and looked over the young officers shoulder to read what was being recorded, and then looked the American sharply in the eye with a glare that said “Piss taker!” but he did not correct his colleague.
If his boss was bringing a spook to a murder scene, it was no business of his to make waves.
Little was achieved by their visit to the scene except to anger all three men. It was too early to establish who amongst the participants had done what at the scene, that would take some time and had no bearing on the important issue, was the operation safe or had it been blown in its entirety, and what should be done now? Those were questions for Petrucci’s boss and the President to address.
North of Magdeburg, Germany: 1300hrs, same day.
That the countryside beyond the river was clear of enemy for a distance of twelve miles was the report from the RA Phoenix operators, and indeed the battalions clearance patrol that had gone back to the ‘island’, had not received a single round of fire from snipers or artillery.
After the enemy armour had withdrawn to the far bank of the Elbe, the fighting had tailed off to nothingness, and the enemy kept right on pulling back, abandoning its useless bridging equipment as it went.
A silence had fallen on the battlefield, and the defenders had slowly allowed themselves to relax, had dared to consider survival as a possibility once more.
The chemical weapons that the Hungarian Division had employed had dissipated, being of the non-persistent variety, so the American paratroopers and British Guardsmen had unmasked as they went about clearing up, repairing field defences and shepherding the wounded to the rear.
The 82nd’s RSM, Arnie Moore, had taken over the full duties of that role for the unit following the death of Barry Stone. Pat Reed and Jim Popham were stood on the shattered autobahn’s on-ramp, gazing about the battlefield when the RSM approached and handed them the butchers’ bill.
The stench of high explosives, burnt out vehicles and their human occupants, almost exclusively the enemies, was heavy in the air. The two officers read the tally of the dead, wounded and missing in acti
on before handing it back with orders to send it with the sitrep up to brigade headquarters.
The losses had been far less than they had been at the Guards first defensive action, but the list bore the names of friends they would never see again.
“Nothing except a battle lost can be half as melancholy as a battle won,” muttered Jim Popham and Pat Reed raised an eyebrow. “Don’t look so surprised Colonel, even at the Virginia Military Academy we got force fed that stuff, don’t think that only Sandhurst cadet’s had to suffer the quotes of dead generals.”
“Actually I always thought Wellington was an insufferable snob and a cold fish.” Pat replied. “If I had to guess, I would say he only said it for effect because the ‘Gentlemen of The Times’ were in earshot.”
The double blasts of the demolition charges destroying the anchor posts of the incomplete ribbon bridge, did not even cause either soldier to blink, they were minute compared to what they had endured during the night.
Pat Reed gripped his webbing yoke and shrugged his equipment up higher onto his shoulders, to ease the strain before turning and heading back to the CP, wondering how long this lull would last before they again got into a fight with the Red Army forces.
Lt Col Reed was giving serious consideration to getting his head down for a couple of hours when he was summoned to the secure radio link with brigade HQ. He was on for ten minutes before removing the headset and handing it back to the signaller.
“Sarn’t Major Moore!”
The paratrooper came over from the far side of the CP. “Sir?”
Pat handed him the warning order he had just received; a Territorial Army unit, 1st Battalion, Wessex Regiment was enroute to take over the battalions current area of responsibility. The enemy had broken through and crossed the river in two sectors and the MSR had been cut. All company, battery and squadron commanders were required to attend an O Group in twenty minutes time. There was to be no move before 1 Wessex arrived, but then the battalion was to face west and perform an advance-to-contact with Russian airborne forces in the rear.
Haddon’s Rock, Colorado: 1847hrs, same day.
The Presidents’ latest location was virtually identical to the previous ones in décor and layout. Above them lay some of the wildest and most spectacular countryside on the continent, but the CEO of the United States had seen none of it. It had been night went the relocation had taken place, so he had grumbled
“Same bat time…same bat cave!” on arrival in his new ‘home’.
The President was ensconced with the heads of the nation’s intelligence community, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs was aware of the topic, and had a long session with the President before the meeting had taken place.
Whilst the future of Guillotine was being debated, Henry Shaw was now busy with his own staff in an office on the next level above the intelligence meeting. Aside from preparing his own briefing for the CEO, Henry had made another issue a matter of personal interest, and the atmosphere in the generals’ office was so cold that frost should have been forming on all the walls in the facility.
When the Military were eventually summoned, the CIA Director Terry Jones was the only spook still present in the room; the rest were the Presidents’ civilian war council. Waiting in the ante room were a few members of congress and the senate, flown in that morning, Henry saw them as he passed through and nodded to them curtly, because knowing someone and respecting them are not the same thing. All of that could wait for now though, there was going to be a showdown but in the meantime there was a war going badly for them, and that was going to take all of his attention.
“Henry, take a seat please, first of all let me get you up to speed with the problem in Scotland we discussed earlier.” The President gestured to the chair beside him.
“Unless the Brit lab identifies the remains on the tracks as being from someone other than that of Major Bedonavich, Guillotine goes ahead as planned,” the President informed him.
Terry Jones, sat opposite Henry was far from happy. The time scale of the incident near Kinloss made it very unlikely that the major could have been forced to reveal all he knew, if it was the Russians body on the line. If it wasn’t the major, then the team that had attacked the house could be well on the way to breaking him now.
Henry’s concern was equally for the mission’s outcome and for the personnel involved.
“Are we going to inform the boys and girls in Russia, of what went down today?”
The President shook his head.
“No General, they are on a high state of alert anyway, news like this will just serve to key them up unnecessarily…if Major Bedonavich died under that train, then we can presume the secret is safe.”
“And if he didn’t?”
“We say nothing…it is not as if we have a back-up plan Henry, we just have to hope that Miss Vorsoff gets the information, and they nuke the son of a bitch before the security forces over there can close in.”
Henry let out a long breath.
“Hell of a way to run a war.”
“Ain’t that the truth!” the Director agreed.
The President nodded to the Marine sentry and he opened the door to the anteroom, allowing the congressmen and senators to enter and seat themselves.
“On a personal note,” the President began. “I am very sad at the death of Scott Tafler. It is possible that two of the three people who are responsible for warning us in time of the Communist attack have now been murdered.” None of the newly arrived politicians had any idea as to who was being spoken of, and to be fair most would have cared a hell of a lot had they known, but others now showed well practised expressions, that they felt suited a sorrowful moment.
Henry Shaw wanted to puke but he himself did not show any of the distaste on his face as he gave his summary of the latest events in the war, but at the finish of the brief, one of those same professional politicians succeeded in stripping away that expression.
“General, I have to say…and I know I speak for all of my distinguished colleagues here with me today,” looking around at the other senators and congressmen.
“The Europeans have once again allowed the soviets to get subs into the Atlantic, they dropped the ball on day one and we had to pick it up, we warned them that the Sov’s were coming again…and still they fumbled and let them waltz right on through. We are getting pretty God damned sick of having to pull the fat from the fire because those guys aren’t pulling their weight!”
Henry leant forward and fixed the man with a look that was icy, completely at odds with the easy smile on his face. “Senator, first of all…what’s with all this WE shit?” but without waiting for a response he continued. “I hear that you are pretty handy with a rifle…did a lot of hunting in the late sixties and early seventies…am I right or am I wrong, but the deer up in Canada don’t shoot back, any more than ours do?” The senator had been in college during the early part of the Vietnam war, where he had been active in the anti-war movement, and even had a framed photograph on the wall of his den, a clipping from ‘Time’ of him pelting wounded American servicemen with animal faeces, at an airport when they arrived home from southeast Asia. He’d skipped north of the border after his finals, and failed to answer his call up papers. Contrary to the ‘self-made-man-and-man-of-the-ordinary-guy’ image that he tried to promote, Walt Rickham was born into money and privilege, and had never had to use his hands to earn a living. Right now he looked like a man going to seed, and trying hard to cover it by the wearing of expensive tailor made suits.
“The fighting men and women of this country are doing their duty, just as the service people across the pond are doing theirs…whilst you mister, are not qualified, either professionally, personally or morally to use the collective term WE…in the context of any of the fighting and dying that is going on!” The senator was used to dealing with persons of a politically like mind, and those who wanted something from him. He was quite unaccustomed to being spoken to harshly by anyone, let alone someone
in uniform, and therefore a menial.
“The forces deployed off the North Cape on that first day did not drop the ball, they were vaporised, burnt, blown up, shot down or sunk. We did not warn the Europeans that they could be coming again, the Europeans discovered that for themselves and told us, and it was European troops and intelligence sources infiltrating some of the most tightly defended real estate on the planet, who told us all that the aircraft and warships were heading west. That warning may not come again, because damn few of those men and women who went behind the lines are answering their radios anymore, the lucky ones are dead, the unlucky ones are having their fingernails pulled out about now. As for fumbling the ball, they sank nineteen missile and attack submarines, twenty-nine surface combat ships and shot down sixty-eight combat aircraft. They achieved all that without any help from us, or may I say from you either.” Henry Shaw picked up a thick sheaf of paper from before him and tossed it at the politician. “…that is the latest NATO casualty list. Ships, aircraft, ground personnel, aircrew and seamen, involved in that particular battle. Had it been US Navy ships on the line then the only difference would have been the addresses on the next-of-kin telegrams.”
The President had invited these people here, because he needed their support to quell the murmurs of dissent over the course of the war, high casualties and little successes. He had warned the senator about his tone and choice of words, around the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, that warning had not been able to pierce the armour of arrogance the politician cloaked about himself. He shot both the general and the politician a warning look, but the senator was on his feet, pulling his well-fed girth from out of the chair.
“You God damned glorified throw-back from the Middle Ages, just who the hell do you think you’re talking to?” He left his place at the table and came around to stand behind Henry, who remained seated and steadfastly looking to the front.
“I’m Walter S Rickham, I’m not some punk, white trash private…I could have your stars just by snapping my fingers, and The President would give them to me because he needs my lobby for re-election. This is the real world General, this is my world, and nothing about your world influences the big picture. I don’t give a crap about how many Frenchies, Limeys or pig-thick Poll-ack’s die, because they don’t pay American taxes or vote in our elections. For every inch of ground those yellow bastards give up that’s an inch less of influence we will have once this things over. You get your ass over there and make those Europeans fight, because when Americans die then it makes us look bad to the people who do count, the people who fund and back elections. You and your kind are a ten-a-penny… the trailer parks and ghettos of full of your kind, good for nothing but going where we tell you and fighting for American interests…but you can’t see that can you, you don’t have the intellect or the genes to see who the real Generals are!”