by Andy Farman
Good news seemed to be a rarity these days and a broad smile spread its way across the President’s face.
“Well hooray for us, it’s about damn time something went right!”
The faces around the table reflected his own lifted spirits, all except that of the admiral who was attempting to keep his face neutral. It wasn’t that he wanted to keep from smiling, quite the opposite in fact, because the captain of the USS Gallishere had been the only child of Zachary and Isabella Gee.
The admiral continued once the Presidents’ exuberance had dissipated.
“We took heavy losses amongst the warships during the main attacks, an Aegis cruiser, three destroyers and six frigates. Then we lost a second Aegis in the early hours; USS Anzio had been badly damaged in the main action and was later torpedoed during the night. The USS Gerald Ford was damaged in a collision with another of our ships and as result can only make fifteen knots due to damage to her bows. In addition to the carrier, we have a half dozen destroyers and frigates in need of repair before they can again put to sea. The Gerald Ford herself will require the services of a dry dock.” He pushed across the table a list, naming all the vessels lost or damaged, and the numbers of crewmen killed, wounded and missing.
The President’s brow furrowed as he read, but at last looked up questioningly.
“The missing crew, they number about three quarters of the total casualty list?”
The fact that a warship was seen by many eyes to blow up, was not sufficient in itself to list her ships complement as killed, they became numbered amongst the missing until absolute proof showed otherwise.
“Yes Mister President, the ships were under orders not to stop to pick up survivors…to do so would have been to invite disaster upon the remainder.”
The President looked at the number of those missing.
“Can we not mount a search and rescue mission?”
Any search and rescue attempt would be a shadow of that which could be mounted in peacetime and such was the nature of modern warfare that few vessels had been able to launch life rafts. Most of the men and women who had gone into the water did so in only what they were wearing at the time, and that water was damn cold. Without some means of staving off the ice cold of the Atlantic most would have survived for a half hour at the very most, but that was not what the President wanted to hear.
“Yes, Mister President.” Admiral Gee answered. “We can try.”
The President was tempted to ask for details, but part of him did not want to know the reality of what must be a limited effort.
“Okay, let’s move on to Germany, what is the current situation?”
The answers he received wiped away the elation of the convoy’s success, the Elbe line was holding, barely.
NATOs firebreak, the Dutch 2nd Armoured Brigade, US 4th Mechanised Brigade, 2 REP, the French Foreign Legion paratroopers, Britain’s 40 and 44 Commando and finally 3(UK) Mechanised Brigade, were in various stages of preparing defensive positions behind the main NATO line. It was the last line of any real substance between the Elbe and the channel, but manned by battered, war weary units, and those relatively fresh, well trained units, but ill equipped for the task expected of them.
SACEUR had taken a gamble on the convoy getting through intact as regards his remaining ammunition stocks. A more cautious commander would have begun rationing ammunition more stringently a week ago, particularly artillery and tank rounds.
The upshot was that the sooner fresh troops, equipment and supplies arrived, the better.
The admiral’s updates on Equalizer and Guillotine were not mentioned, those were for the ears of a very select, and trusted few, once the remainder of the staff was absent, but there were still other items to be gone over before the end of this session, and that happened.
An hour and a half later, Ben Dupre briefed the president on the event that had brought him from his temporary headquarters.
“Mister President, you will recall that you wanted to be kept informed about the investigation into the murder of Scott Tafler in Scotland, well I am here to inform you, and Terry of course, that the British police have picked up the trail of the culprits.”
He hadn’t had the chance to speak to Terry Jones before the meeting, and now the CIA Director sat upright. Scott Tafler had been one of his own, and the killing of one of its operatives was something the CIA never forgave, and never ever forgot.
“A day and a half after the murder of Scott, Major Bedonavich and the two British police officers, a break-in took place at a chemist shop…that’s a pharmacy to you and me. The pharmacy was at a place called Purley on the southern outskirts of London, some four hundred and fifty miles from the crime scene. There were a lot of footprints in the snow up in Scotland, and the British police got a match on one of them at the pharmacy. It seems someone wanted sterile dressings, painkillers, and antibiotics.”
“Well we knew the killers didn’t have everything their own way, at least two were wounded weren’t they?”
Ben nodded.
“Yes sir, two were killed at the safe house and the bodies abandoned. There were two separate blood trails, one of those turned up dead in a torched vehicle that they had used.”
The president let that sink in, before asking.
“So how strong is the lead, and is there anything we can do to help?”
“Well sir, a lot of the British police have exchanged their blue uniforms for green ones which is why it has taken so long for the link to be made. However, their SO15 people took over the Purley investigation, seized CCTV tapes from every shop camera around, got one of the guy leaving the pharmacy from a newsagents security camera across the street, and found another with the same guy filling up at a gas station a half hour before, so they got the cars plates. It’s a rental and hasn’t been returned yet” Terry Jones was leaning forward, focused completely on the FBI Directors words.
“London, well Central London to be exact, has a fairly unique system of logging all vehicles that enter, and it is not part of the law enforcement organisation.”
“That would be the traffic congestion set up they have.” Interjected an aide. “People having to pay an extra tax for the privilege of getting to work on time.”
The FBI Director shot the speaker a ‘thanks for the input, now shut up’ look, before continuing.
“The locals made enquiries and struck it lucky. In order to enter the congestion zone a vehicle has to be registered, and this car is indeed registered, unfortunately to a vacant lot in Cambridge…however, the car has entered and left the city on the same day each week for the last three.”
Terry would put money on the car driving past several locations significant only to the driver and some contact in the city, looking for signals, a chalk mark on a lamppost or something equally as innocuous to Joe Public. The signal would be to prompt another action, such as visiting a dead letter drop for further instructions. But Terry did not concern himself with the marks possible portent, something in Dupre’s voice told Terry Jones that the cars next expected visit was imminent.
“When is it due next?”
“Tomorrow, and the Brits have something set up but I don’t have the details.”
Terry grunted, whatever the Brits did was fine by him so long as they didn’t screw up.
“Do they have a contingency for a no-show?”
“Those plates have now been programmed into their ANPR system, automatic number plate readers in police cars and beside roads. Every officer has been told it is a stolen vehicle but that it must not be approached, just sighting reports called in.” Ben looked around the table. “The police commissioner in London wants those guys so bad he can almost taste them, they’ll find them alright.”
Once the meeting had broken up and only the president, Terry Jones and Admiral Gee remained in the room, the Secret Service secured the doors ensuring that there was no one to overhear the next items on the president’s agenda.
Instead of prompting the admiral to
begin, the president looked at the officer closely, his gaze softening. He had seen the name of a Captain Andrew Gee’s ship on the list, and knew enough about his staff to know what it meant.
“How is Isabella taking it, Zach?”
“I would like to say as well as can be expected, but she has taken it hard, sir. She is at her sisters, so it’s not as if she is alone.”
The president was quite for a moment. “I’m letting you go Zach, General Carmine is the next senior, and he can hold the fort until Henry gets back. I want you to send for him once this meeting is over, and once you get to your sister-in-laws I want you to call me on my personal number, ok?”
Zachary Gee merely nodded.
“Is he in on our special projects?”
“No Mister President, I will brief him once he gets here from the alternate site.”
“Very well, then let us proceed.”
Admiral Gee produced a disc from an inside pocket of his jacket, placing it in a drive on the table before him and brought up the north Pacific on the plasma screen.
“You will be aware that General Shaw had misgivings over the chances of such a complex plan succeeding, too many factors reliant on each other for it all to work as desired…well happily sir, it is a case of so far so good.”
The screen showed the locations of all the units involved in the hunt for the PRC boomer, the Xia, or at least their positions as of three hours before.
“HMS Hood picked up a scent about eighteen hours ago and spent six hours firming it up before breaking contact to report. They sent us pump noises on the data link that they did not have on their database and one of the queries was whether not it was one of our boats.”
Part of the intelligence shared amongst NATO navies was the acoustic signature of their own vessels, and those gathered by their sources, usually submarines or remote hydrophone sensors, of non-members vessels. The president knew this, and he knew that the US Navy had several hours’ worth of audio of every single vessel on the PRCs inventory, so he was wondering why the Brits needed clarification. Perhaps, he thought, the intelligence was not flowing as it should do to those that needed it, but what Admiral Gee said over the next few minutes made his jaw set.
“The Peoples Republic is not much into research and development, and even less into innovation. They tend to let someone else do that and then they steal it, or at they least try to.” Zach Gee tapped a key and the north Pacific disappeared from the plasma screen, to be replaced by a visual of what the British attack submarine had heard. It resembled that which many a TV viewer has seen during tense moments during a hospital soap drama, the thin green, horizontal line that depicted the heartbeat of the subject in its peaks and troughs. What the President was seeing however, was the acoustic signature of a pump in a submarines nuclear power plant.
“Pretty quiet, huh?” Admiral Gee spoke as if addressing someone who knew the significance of what was on the screen.
“I’ll have to take your word for it Admiral.”
“We have identified the attack boat riding shotgun to the Xia by process of elimination.” The Admiral went on. “She is the Chuntian, the ‘Spring’, named after the season, and both she and the Xia were in port for several months before the war kicked off. On their previous voyage though, the USS Seawolf tracked ‘em every step of the way, and this was the signatures each gave off.” Zach pressed another key.
Below the first undulating line, two more appeared and beside each was the name of the vessel that had produced them. Even the President could see that the lines were ‘rougher’, their peaks and troughs more pronounced.
“I think Admiral that you have another example ready to show me, and it will not only be one our vessels but it will also resemble the first signature you put up?”
The admiral nodded.
“Actually it’s even quieter, but what you are seeing there is a leap forwards in pump technology of ten to twelve years by the Chinese, because that first signature is not from any friendly vessel.”
“They stole it from us.”
“More likely they stole the design, or one of ours sold them the specs.” Zach stated before going on. “If one of our pumps had gone missing then we’d know about it, we don’t exactly have store rooms full of them just waiting for one to get jacked. They are frighteningly expensive and also it takes more than a set of blue prints to replicate. The alloys and materials that go into them are exceedingly specialised and some could be classed as exotic.” The Admirals finger tapped once more and the USS Seawolf’s acoustic signature appeared and it was indeed at least two steps closer to a flat line.
“What they are using is a pirate copy.”
“Do we know which submarine Hood heard?”
“No Mister President, but whichever one it is, the other one is sure to be somewhere nearby.”
This was positive stuff for the President, and something he needed to ward off the gloom that was threatening not only his dreams, but his waking hours too.
“Okay, is the Hood back on the trail?”
“Yes sir, and the Dallas, Albuquerque and San Juan are heading in to the area from the neighbouring sectors.”
The President had a few questions before the situation was totally clear in his mind as to what their next actions would be, and then the briefing moved on to mainland China.
“Equalisers land effort is currently stalled by a storm front, but once that passes and the troops can get moving again they may have an added complication, one which was not considered at the time the plan was put together.” Zach Gee handed across a copy of Richard Dewar’s last message. After reading it the message was passed back.
“I have already been briefed on our lack of intelligence assets in that region of the country, is there any way of knowing if an army of peasants will be swarming over the mountains when Dewar arrives?”
“No, and any effort to do so could alert the PRC.”
The news from Russia more than made up for that from China, and the president left his seat to peer at the hiding place of the man who had started this war.
“If I had been asked which was least likely to work I would have said Guillotine, but Miss Vorsoff seems to be every bit as capable as Scott Tafler predicted, God rest his soul.”
“I take it that she has not yet been informed yet of events at the safe house in Scotland?”
“No, Admiral.” The president answered. “I cannot see that such knowledge would in any way assist her, on her present mission.”
Vormundberg, Germany: 1516hrs, same day.
Vormundberg, or Guardian Hill in English, was not the kind of geographic feature that would have inspired Wagner. It lacked oppressive, grey granite walls and its sides, though steep, did not fall into the category of cliff-like; in short, no self-respecting Valkyrie would have chosen it as the site for an eerie.
At some time in the distant past it had been de-forested and a small settlement had occupied its top, but nature had repossessed the feature when the former occupants disappeared into the mists of time and spruce trees covered its slopes and crest again.
Following the strikes on Helmstedt with fuel air weapons, 3(UK) Mechanised Brigade had turned its back on the town, leaving its occupation to local forces and moving to occupy an area of ground which included the cigar shaped feature.
Pat Reed’s FV435 had churned its way through dirty coloured slush and mud, to the site of the battalion CP. A thaw had set in as suddenly as had the previous unseasonable snow, so the countryside had altered from virginal white to a damp, depressing mix of browns. A fine drizzly rain fell from low clouds, whose base hung just above the hills topmost trees, which at least offered some protection against air attack whilst it lasted, now they were again closer to the front. It did nothing however to lift the spirits of troops bone tired, both physically and mentally.
The COs notebook was full of the details of how his unit would defend the ground here, and how the brigades artillery, ground and air assets were to be shared. At
the brigade commanders O Group he had bitten down the exasperation of learning the previous days workable plan had been replaced with another, one less favourable to his unit.
That hadn’t been the only item to cause him annoyance, the other infantry battalions were receiving twice the number of replacements that his was, and all his recommendations for bravery awards had been disapproved. Not so much as a mention in despatches for a single Guardsman had been granted, and had that been the case for every other regiment then he could have lived with it, but the gallantry of other battalion’s soldiers within the brigade and elsewhere certainly was being recognised. He didn’t begrudge a single one of the awards he had heard about today from the other COs, but he had approached the brigade commander who had been unable to shed any light on decisions on the 1CG men, but whom however had promised to make enquiries into the matter.
Exiting his vehicle he looked toward the nearest Challenger fighting position, the Royal Engineers who had been tasked with its construction were already packing up, the job only half done, and preparing to move their JCBs and mechanical trench diggers the six miles to 40 Commando RMs turf and assist them instead. There was logic to it, Pat allowed, the Royal Marines had arrived only ten hours before and had a way to go before the ground assigned them reached the degree of defensibility its commander desired. Pat knew that the Marines hadn’t been sat on their hands in Norway, but dug in ready to repel an invasion from over the border. However, his own men had been in action every single day since the start of the war, and with the tanks out to the north screening the position whilst it was being prepared, the infantrymen would have to forego rest in order to complete the engineers tasks here by hand.
The mud squelched underfoot as he headed to where he knew his officers were assembled to receive their own orders from himself, but he stopped and turned to survey the area. Two riflemen were visible coming downhill through the trees, walking parallel to a muddy and much trodden footpath. Pat looked elsewhere and saw fresh track and tyre marks winding between tree trunks, and felt a spike of annoyance.