by Andy Farman
“The Royal Norwegian Navy, Royal Navy and the German Navy have between them seven submarines on station at the North Cape covering any egress into the Atlantic of Russian or Baltic states warships, there are surface ASW warship groups arriving on station as we speak.” General Shaw paused and looked closely at the president before asking.
“In view of recent events in the previously independent ex Warsaw Pact countries and what may have transpired in the North Pacific…Are there any changes in the ROE’s sir?”
After a moment’s pause he was answered with
“As we do not know what is occurring in those ports I have a local amendment. Before any open hostilities have occurred, any surface warship or surfaced submarine coming from there is to be ordered to return to its port. Any submerged submarine is to be attacked…I will answer to the UN if that does happen, I believe we have just cause…is that clear General?”
Shaw nodded and continued.
“Due to the threat still present to military targets by the suitcase bombs, the Air Force will be using several airfields abandoned by us in the reduction in force during the 90’s, rather than those that still exist. There are no PX’s or bowling alleys left but they are usable.”
“Thank you General...and now CIA, what you got in the situation in Eastern Europe?” asked the president.
“The Poles, Lithuanians and Belorussians have defeated the attempted coups in their countries but both report defections of units of their armed forces to the now pro-Russian countries on their borders. Those countries, like Russia, have otherwise sealed their borders. We believe we can trust the satellite images we have that show those countries are gearing up and uniting, I believe they will hold in place and allow the Russians to move up to them and they will then be in position to jump off westwards. Smaller than the old Red Army but if they came tomorrow we would be screwed sir.”
The president rubbed at his eyes and ordered a refill of coffee. It was a sign of his revised affections and current dependency on caffeine that he no longer drank from the White House china cups but from a mug bearing the crest of the United States Air force. Over the past couple of days the mug had been rotated with three others, Army, Navy and USMC.
“As of this morning all our consular and ambassadorial business in Russia is being dealt referred to the Swiss Embassy. Our consulates in St Petersburg, Vladivostok, Yekaterinburg and the embassy at Bolshoy Devyatinskiy Pereulok have been closed.” He informed them.
“I will leave you to carry on in my absence as I still have the business of running the country…the one improvement in my duties these days is that I no longer have to smile for the cameras whilst meeting ‘Miss Hoocheekoo Falls Dairy Queen’ and the like.”
He surveyed those present and added.
“I can see I am going to have to fire you all and employ some ass kissers…you were meant to laugh at that!”
Vauxhall, London: 1151hrs, same day
Sat beside the River Thames is the large glass, modern office building that is one of the centres of the United Kingdom Secret Intelligence Service. Thanks to Hollywood it is universally believed to be the address.
Referred to as ‘Box’ by some, and ‘500’ by others after the old postal address that was the only clue the public had of the location of the site, P.O Box 500. Thames House on Millbank is still the headquarters of Britain’s intelligence services.
There are no basement laboratories or proving grounds testing ballpoint pen flamethrowers though. What they do have however are intelligence gathering facilities beyond the abilities of a police forces own counter intelligence expertise and counter surveillance equipment to counter.
Marjorie Willet-Haugh ended one phone call and made another before taking the message pad she had written on and tore off not only the single page on which she had scribbled details but the top twenty pages. Spinning around in her large green leather swivel chair she fed the pages through a shredder and burnt the strips that resulted.
Gloucestershire, England. Same time
Turning off the M50 motorway Constantine followed Svetlana’s directions.
She wore dark glasses and her hair flowed like a mane over the back of the passenger seat where she sat with her stretch denim-clad legs tucked beneath her. She was reading from a road map purchased from a camping shop along with a few other items along with an Ordnance Survey map of the Forest of Dean. He glanced appreciatively at her, no longer wondering how she managed to breathe in jeans that tight, but glad only that she did.
Having telephoned their hotel from a public coin box they had paid the bill by credit card and mumbled about a family crisis preventing their return.
Both existed on a wardrobe that fitted into one medium sized case and two holdall's that they carried at all times. The case lived in the boot of their car.
Svetlana had listened carefully as the commissioner had spoken on the phone, weighing his words and gauging his honesty. She had ended the call to hold a council of war with Constantine. They had agreed to meet the commissioners contacts but on their terms. They would choose the ground and had called him back with their conditions.
Passing the town of Nailbridge they had eventually turned off the A4136 road and along a track into woodland until a padlocked gate had barred the way. It took Svetlana less than a minute to open the gate and once Constantine had driven the car through she used a lump of putty to disguise the damage the bolt croppers had caused.
The cars English ‘racing green’ colour scheme assisted their concealing it beneath trees.
“Was it just luck that you picked this car?” he asked and then looked at the despairing expression on her face.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, prior preparation and planning prevents poor performance,” he answered for her.
Slipping into their newly acquired purchases they picked a clearing and found a place to observe that offered cover to escape unseen if need be.
Reading off the digits on their cheap hill walkers GPS, Svetlana relayed the location of the clearing to the commissioner on her cellular and they both settled down to wait.
After just twenty-five minutes the beat of a helicopter approaching caused them to both huddle lower into the cover of the undergrowth.
Arriving over the clearing a civilian Jet Ranger began to slowly circle as if looking for the best angle in which to make its landing approach. Clamped above one of its landing struts was a fairly innocuous football sized object.
Inside the helicopter the heat sensor clamped above the strut picked out the two heat sources concealed below the brush. The helicopter pivoted so that the side cargo door faced toward the hiding place and its side door slid open into the locked position. From inside the cargo bay two gunners wearing goggles slaved to the heat sensor combined the weight of fire from their two M60 machine guns to tear through foliage, branches, newly purchased camouflage clothing, flesh and bone. The ammunition being used was not made up of all standard ball rounds. Every third round was a flechette sabot, once clear of the muzzle the cone of the round fell apart and the twelve arrow-like flechettes continued their supersonic journey. The helicopter backed off as the gunners reloaded with fresh 500 round belts and the pilot attempted to use the aircraft’s downwash to clear a view of the two shattered figures amongst the detritus of splintered wood, leaves and torn earth.
Looking to his right in alarm the Jet Rangers pilot banked left so suddenly the two gunners were sent sliding toward the open doorway. Before they reached it 30mm cannon shells raked their machine from cargo bay to cockpit and it continued banking ever more steeply left.
From his position peering between the two pilots of the Royal Air Force Lynx helicopter, Scott’s eyes were on the section of damaged woodland rather than their accompanying Army Air Corps AH-64 Apache or its target. Scott was cursing over and over and punching the back of the bulkhead. His two escorting SFOs were gawping out the side door at the stricken Jet Ranger as its left bank became a stall and it dropped through the tree canop
y sideways in a cloud of splintered timber and shattered rotor blades.
Ministry of Defence, London: Same time
Corporal Barnes was had been pouring over the American data since the previous night, he had about got to the point where all the digits were about to flow together into an unrecognisable blur. Time for more coffee he decided. Holding up five fingers he received a nod from the flight sergeant and made his way to the kettle. It was during the act of pouring the water into a plastic cup that he got that feeling, the feeling which is associated with the subconscious, telling you that you had looked right at something of significance and not recognised it for what it was.
Returning to his workstation he sipped his powdered coffee and waited for it to kick in and give him a clue.
Wellington Barracks, London: 1338hrs same day
Colin Probert and Stevie Osgood emerged from the WO & Sgt’s Mess lugging their bergens and fighting order over to waiting 4-ton trucks. In the past two days they had been buggered about from Wales to London. Without chance to unpack they were now off again, this time to Southampton and a ferry to Holland. If you think the two soldiers were hacked off you should have been a fly on the wall of their respective married quarters when the news was broken to Mrs Probert and Mrs Osgood.
In the confusion that followed Russia’s act of war against the UK, both soldiers had been posted to No. 7 (Composite) Company, Coldstream Guards at Wellington Barracks. 7 Company was the only standing remnant of 2CG, placed in suspended animation it really only existed on paper, to be reformed with reservists if necessary. 2CG never had a 7 Company, its companies were 1, 2 (Support), 3, 4 and Headquarter Company.
Wellington Barracks is home to the five regiments of Foot Guards, Companies that carry out the day-to-day Public Duties. Mounting Guard at the Royal Palaces and HM Tower of London and providing a Guard of Honour where required.
There is not a single unit within the British Army, which is up to full strength. The same goes for the Royal Marines. Not a single Royal Navy or Royal Fleet Auxiliary ship goes to sea with its ideal peacetime compliment or even full magazines. Not a single RAF Station or its Squadron’s meet the NATO manning or equipment requirements. Politicians would rather scrimp on the Ministry Of Defence budgets than choose a cheaper venue for an unnecessary junket at taxpayers’ expense.
So Colin, Oz and 7 Company were Germany bound along with the reservists who had so far been processed through, not to stand by as battlefield casualty replacements, but to go some way to bringing the 1st Battalion Coldstream Guards up to full strength.
Having loaded their kit aboard they made their way over to the square where the Company was beginning to form up and fell in at the rear with the other newly arrived WOs and NCOs who, for the time being, constituted fifth wheels in the present orbat.
Forest of Dean, Gloucestershire; 1340hrs, same day
Before the RAF Lynx had touched the ground in the clearing Scott and his escorting firearms officers had leaped out. Both policemen landed, rolled and came up running with the ease of long practice. Scott did not some much land as splat. The Lynx lifted straight back up and began patrolling the area.
Neither officer directly approached the scene of violence; both took up firing positions and scanned the surroundings. The left knee of his relatively new Chino’s was smeared green and brown, a mixture of mud and grass stains, as Scott ran up favouring his left leg. Both bodies were so badly chewed up that neither was recognisable anymore as human. Breathing heavily Scott was circling the scene of carnage when his right foot snagged on something, his weakened left leg could not support his weight and he fell face first into the mess before him. With an exclamation of disgust he jerked away and wiped his right palm instinctively on his already grimed trouser leg to cleanse it of the blood and flesh it had landed in. Scott stopped in mid action and looked down; a piece of bloodied, clear cellophane was stuck to his trousers. With two fingers he gingerly peeled it off the material and turned it over, there was a portion of label attached to the plastic film.
“Sainsb?” he read aloud. He was motionless for moments as he looked hard at what lay before him and then at his foot to the object that had tripped him. Reaching into the mess for another plastic wrapped item his hand jerked back, it was warm to the touch. On his second attempt he caught it by the edge to draw it out; leaves and brush, stuffed into the now heavily punctured clothing snagged it. Prying it free he gave it a quick wipe and rendered the chemically self-heating meals instructions readable, in amongst the shredded clothes he thought he saw the remains of similar items. Scott got up, freed his foot from the green twine he’d stumbled over and saw it was attached at one end to the corner of a green backed heavy duty survival blanket lying to the side of the bloodied and torn camouflage clothing. He hobbled as he followed the twine the other way on its course deeper into the woodland. His escort moved position in order to provide cover if needed.
After seventy yards the twine disappeared below the thick carpet of dead leaves in that portion of the woodland. Scott jumped as the leaf carpet spoke to him in accented English.
“If you shoot at us we will shoot back…clear?”
Carefully Scott released the twine and held his hands clear of his body. His escorts sank to the ground and moved into cover.
With a rustle of leaves a female peeled back their own survival blanket that had masked their heat signature and smiled up at the bedraggled American. Beside her in the natural depression in the ground, a man was aiming a handgun at Scott’s face. From Intelligence photographs Scott recognised him as Bedonavich.
“Christina Carlisle?” Scott asked the girl.
“Sort of.” she replied.
Scott grinned,
“Just checking…I didn’t recognise you with your clothes on.”
White House, Situation Room: 1400hrs, same day
Returning to the room and waving its occupants back into their seats the president lowered himself into his own chair and raised his empty mug. No ancillary staff was permitted in the room at times like these. A secret service agent took the mug and returned with it filled a minute later. Nodding his thanks the president turned to business. “Gentlemen,” he said. “I have some good news, bad news and not so bad news. As of lunchtime today we have the armed forces of France joining us, that’s an additional seven division corps worth of good news. The bad news is that Her Majesty’s Government in Great Britain is planning to sue for a separate peace the moment hostilities start.” With the exception of Terry Jones and General Shaw that was startling news to the rest of the room. The president allowed them a minute to vent their anger and surprise before calling them back to silence.
“The better news is that their PM is about to get a rude awakening…ooh, just about now I think!” he said smiling after glancing at the wall clock showing the time in London.
No.10 Downing Street, London: Same time
The prime minister was in conference with his inner cabinet and one other person in the Cabinet room at the rear of No.10. It was the same room where John Major had been in conference with his cabinet in 1991 when the Provisional IRA had rearranged the floral arrangements in the back garden adjacent to the room, using an improvised mortar.
Since the confrontation at New Scotland Yard his close protection team was no longer permitted in the building. Only when he emerged did they exit the vehicles in which they now were forced to wait and sleep in. Arrangements were underway with the Ministry of Defence to supply trained CP personnel to replace the police guard the PM’s had always been supplied with previously.
A copy of Jean Baptiste van Loo’s 1740 portrait of Britain’s first Prime Minister, Sir Robert Walpole, stared down from above the fireplace at the gathering as the present PM and his cabinet were being briefed on the state of the negotiations taking place in secret with the Russian Government. The doors were locked and the room was probably one of the securest in the land as regards electronic surveillance, as well as soundproofing of course. The 3-inch t
hick glass of the windows, installed after the 1991 attack only added to security of the room.
It came as somewhat of a surprise to the occupants, given the soundproofing, that a creaking sound could suddenly be heard from the doorway. All heads turned in that direction; in time to see the doorframes visibly bow away from the door. A loud bang then followed and the door crashed open.
A ‘Ghostbuster’ from the Metropolitan Police Technical Support Unit pulled away the hydraulic door opener he had been using to allow the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police to enter. He paused to admire his handiwork before dropping a red painted door ram onto the carpet in the room; it landed with a very audible 'thud'. Removing his protective gauntlets and ignoring the shouts of protest from the occupants he declared
“Do you know something, I have always wanted to do that. They didn’t have them when I was a street copper; we used what we called a ‘size nine key’ in those days.”
Entering the room behind him were several other police officers and one of the most senior criminal court judges in the land along with the American ambassador and Art Petrucci.
“Prime Minister, listen carefully to what I have to say. As you are aware I am conducting a criminal investigation into the murder of six of my officers on the 22nd March of this year in Rotherhithe, southeast London. You are also aware that I desired to trace two possible witnesses. Prime Minister I have received tape-recorded conversations between yourself and the head of the SIS, Marjorie Willet-Haugh.”