by Andy Farman
With the eighth and last Harpoon away the Hood sprinted east, putting distance, and depth, between the enemy surface ships and herself. She released a communications buoy as she went, its transmissions detailing her attacks on the Alpha and carriers.
Three hours’ later, a now debugged satellite surveillance system, downloaded the images of ships heading for the port of Ust’-Kamchatsk. Both carriers had taken a single hit apiece but their bulk had absorbed the damage, it would take more than that to put them on the bottom, they were walking wounded only.
Twenty miles behind them bobbed an orange life raft containing a young Chinese pilot, Lt Fu Chen had punched out of his crippled Flanker as the fuel tanks ran dry, by which time the warships were already departing the area at best speed. The young officer had managed to get ahead of the surface ships before ejecting, confident on his being picked up by a ship or helicopter as they passed by, hailing them from the life raft and releasing distress flares. All the helicopters were on ASW duty, none of the warships or fleet supply vessels had stopped, all had their orders from the Admiral, stop for no man. News of the executions, within minutes of his arrival on the flagship, had made the rounds of the ships under his command and no-one was willing to risk a bullet by disobeying. As the last ship disappeared from sight Fu Chen regarded the empty container of distress flares that he held, he was about to toss it over the side when he decided it may have some future use and he tucked it into a pocket of his flight suit.
“Ah…nu nu!” he shouted at the distant horizon. ‘‘Tits!’’ was about the strongest verbal expression of dejection he had left in him.
Texas: 1646hrs, same day.
The first twenty vehicles of the US 5th Armoured Division had already been loaded aboard ships when the order came to take them all off and entrain them again, this time for San Diego and San Francisco.
The first troops of the division had begun their air journey to Europe only to be turned around, brought back and transferred to California bound flights.
All, good, military organisations train regularly, be it in practical, hands on, exercises or TEWTs, tactical exercises without troops. The movement planners had actually solved far worse problems in theoretical exercises, moving trains, planes and ships toward a jungle theatre and then redeploying the whole shebang to invade Antarctica. The about-face they had been presented with was a less taxing scenario, but a logistical frightmare all the same.
Small details fall off the edge of the table at the best of times, the planners had X number of vehicles, stores and personnel that had been Europe bound and they re-routed X to Australia. Amid the catch-all ‘X’ was a ‘Q’ that was overlooked.
Captain Hector Sinclair Obediah Wantage-Ferdoux, 1st Royal Tank Regiment, 1RTR, Officer Commanding the unit known locally as Queen Elizabeth’s Combat Team, had been trying without success to contact the British Military Liaison at the Pentagon. The Pentagon had been evacuated and dispersed and no one was prepared to give the liaison’s new number to a foreigner who sounded like the character ‘Higgins’ in Magnum P.I, and calling from a dockside payphone in Texas. His next attempt had been the British Embassy but that too had been evacuated and no-one was sure where it had been evacuated to. The United Kingdom’s Embassy building at 3100 Massachusetts Avenue had been severely damaged in the nuclear explosion and lay downwind of ground zero. There were no senior embassy staff left in the USA, they and the military attaché had been sharing the same Limo, stopped in traffic at the junction of 3rd Street and Pennsylvania Avenue when the bomb had detonated.
Washington DC was a disaster zone and it would be quite some time until the system reset and lines of communication were restored to something approaching normal.
The only facts that Heck was sure of were that his boys and girls, their equipment and stores, were included in the redeployment. Putting down the telephone he thanked the dock manager and returned to the quayside. There was nothing for them to do at present and he was about to make his way back to the troops. The outer office had a television and CNN was devoting the vast majority of its airtime to the conflict. The pictures on screen of the devastation in the heart of America’s capital were horrifying. Heck had stood in silence, along with others. Nuclear war was a horror no sane person should ever inflict upon humanity; the sense of disbelief in the room was more intense even that displayed when the airliners had flown into the twin towers. At the end of the Washington report there followed an item on the events in the Pacific, including very brief details of a sea battle, more news on that as it becomes available, said the anchor person.
On the quayside there was a Soccer international in progress, it was not following FA rules inasmuch as each side had approximately three times more players than the rules allowed. The score stood at an amazing 23-27 and Great Britain had control of the ball. Sgt Rebecca Hemmings, of the Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers, flew down the right wing, skilful ball control evident as she beat four US players in a row. Her hair was a wet plastered mop; boots and clothing were squelching water as she ran with the ball at her feet.
In the localised rules of the game being played here on the quayside in Texas, the player responsible for kicking the ball out of play had to fetch it back. If it went in one direction in particular, the player got extremely wet.
The retrieval of the ball from that direction was a cause of much amusement, but for some reason it was also greeted with enthusiasm by the other players and spectators alike, if it had been kicked out of play by a female. Players of both sexes found such feeble excuses as the non-ability to swim, fell on deaf ears. If the offender did not immediately plunge in, they were unceremoniously thrown in after it.
Captain King was stood on the quay watching the game when Heck returned.
“What’s happening?” he asked Heck.
“I couldn’t find out, things are understandably a bit chaotic, I cannot imagine that the situation will improve any time soon, so you may well be stuck with us Tone.”
Daniel nodded.
“Divisional staff are getting a briefing, we may know more then. I just phoned my wife, how about you?”
Heck shook his head.
“No point really, not until I know something. I suppose from your West Coast we could be going about anywhere…opening up a second front in Shanghai or reinforce Taiwan even, though I rather doubt that it is tank country, is it?”
“Mountains and a thin coastal strip, more suited to light infantry and mountain troops.”
“Just as well I joined the for the mystery and adventure, really.”
Daniel offered him a cigarette and they lit up.
“So what made you join the Army, Tone?”
Danny shrugged.
“We lived in Detroit, my Pa, Uncles and older brothers all worked at the plant, making cars, I just wanted something more. Worked hard at school, got to college and joined the Officer Training Corps…on account I was sweet on a girl who was OTC.”
“Is that your wife now?”
“Hell no!” Daniel chuckled, “Turned out I was the wrong gender…if you get my drift?” He looked at Heck.
“How about you?”
“Sorry old man, I don’t much fancy you either…no offence of course?” He paused to watch as a penalty was taken, he didn’t think that the shooter had much hope of getting it past the wall made up of two dozen opposing players.
“It’s a family thing, we all join the regiment, for a few years at least…with the exception of my cousin and great uncle of course.”
“Why of course?” Daniel asked.
“Cousin Armitage is as queer as a coot…but then, he was at Eton, so it’s only to be expected. Great Uncle George, now he didn’t join the regiment on account of being as mad as a box of frogs…ran around naked with his pubic hair on fire rather a lot.”
Daniel was smiling.
“I thought all you guys went to Eton?”
Heck was horrified.
“Lord no…buggered senseless the moment
you step through the door, by all accounts. I went to Harrow and then to Cambridge.”
A Humvee arrived, stopping beside the dock office and members of the senior divisional staff appeared from the vehicle.
“Well,” said Daniel.
“We may not find out where we are headed but it’s time to get the show on the road.”
Germany, west of the Wesernitz: 1834hrs, same day
The Yorkshire Yeomanry and Recce Platoon, 1CG, were falling back before the advance of what they now knew to be, forward elements of the 2nd Shock Army.
In front of 3 (UK) Mechanised Brigade were two motor rifle and one armoured division, man for man the Brits were outnumbered 12-1, the story was the same for the French on their right and the Americans on their left. Behind them sat a line of German brigades whom they would pass through to dig in and prepare another line of defence, when the time came. The strategy was to delay the enemy until the heavy convoys arrived with reinforcements from across the Atlantic. Falling back whilst bleeding the invaders as they did so. Colin Probert was just concerned that they were possibly going to be defending Calais by the time the cavalry arrived. He had got about two hours’ sleep following stand-to, after which the Royal Engineers had arrived and dug hull-down positions for the QRFs Warrior APCs.
During the early hours’, at the same time as Colin’s patrol had got noisy on the east side of the river, the Czechs had tried something similar on the forward slopes of 1 Company’s position, but at night they were just ambush bait.
The Czechs had tried to recce the location and had been chopped up, some had got away with enough of an idea of where the Forward Line of Troops was and as such the FLOT was likely to come in for some attention very soon.
All the enemy recce units that had been located over the previous two days had left been more or less unmolested, that changed with the news that the main force had crossed the border and the mortar platoons had performed shoot and scoot’s. It was inevitable that the enemy would have learnt something of genuine use to them, but a fair deception plan had been in force. The British had deliberately skirted some areas, hinting at minefields and driven along narrow unmarked lanes in real ones. Dummy positions had been in use, false radio traffic from dummy headquarters, in fact anything to throw the enemy off, even slightly. The Red Army recce troops had noted all of this, but with the coming of the assault their recce troops unwitting usefulness was at an end, and the mortars stonked their positions.
Colin was doing the rounds, ensuring that everyone was set and nothing had been left above ground. Everyone was wearing their NBC suits, but no masks yet. NBC clothing hampers and reduces a man’s effectiveness but without it he is as good as dead if chemical weapons are used. Just because they had not been employed in Belorussia did not mean they would be lucky here. Black rubber gloves, reaching halfway to the elbows were adorned with the soldiers watches, so time could be told without their breaking the integrity of their suits. Clumsy looking over-boots protected their feet, plastic soles and rubberised material formed a barrier to chemicals. Colin often wondered why they were called ‘NBC suits’, nuclear, biological and chemical protective, because the ‘Noddy suit’ gave the very minimum of protection from radiation and germ warfare agents.
There was sporadic firing from the east and Colin let his boys know what he did, that the Yeomanry, Recce Platoon and the attached anti-tank section was sniping at the lead formation. The helicopter battle had already started and NATO had been in for a nasty shock. Unlike their attack on Belorussia, the Czech and Russian forces they faced here had more up to date rotary kit, Kamov KA-52 ‘Alligators’, KA-50 ‘Hocum’s’ and Mi-28 ‘Havocs’ that had swept ahead of the ground forces. These one and two seat machines were nothing short of rotary wing fighter aircraft. Their primary target had been the NATO helicopter gunships. The Kamov’s were impervious to most ground fire, titanium armour protected the vitals. The MI-28 Havocs were not quite so well protected, having steel armour plate instead of titanium but you did not want to mess with them either.
CSM Probert was lying at the rear of one of the trenches, talking with its young occupants. He had been asked to adjudicate in a debate, of obvious importance to two soldiers about to see combat for the first time. If you only had an hour to live, which female singer would it be with?
“Okay,” said Colin. “At what level are we talking, holding hands and watching the sunset?”
“Be real sir!” Guardsman Robertson explained.
“One hour left to live out a fantasy…it would have to be in a hot tub,” he decided.
Next to him Guardsman Aldridge was nodding in agreement and added.
“And loads of bottles of crazy juice?” Robertson obviously thought this was an excellent idea too.
Colin smiled.
“All right, you have a hot tub, as much Newcastle Brown Ale as you can drink. Who’s at the head of the running order?
“Katy Perry or Selena Gomez.” Robertson said, looking at his oppo for confirmation and Aldridge nodded rapidly in agreement.
“And you think you are going to get them in the mood with Newcastle Brown?” queried Colin.
“Yeah…why not?” The dashing young romantics from Tyne and Weir answered in unison.
“Come on boys, two fit gorgeous creatures who are used to living in style…..really?”
They both went into a huddle for a brief discussion before Robertson announced.
“A bottle of sweet white for the winner, then.”
Colin slowly smiled.
“Why not both, why not a threesome… after all, it is your last thirty-six hundred seconds of life?”
“Yeah, wicked!” declared Aldridge.
Both young men were happy now.
“The problem is though…,” said Colin slowly.
“How are you going to leave a lasting impression in only an hour…I mean, you want to leave them with a good impression, don’t you?”
Satisfied that he had managed to sow confusion in their young minds, he moved on to the next position. He was half way there when he heard the moan of approaching artillery shells.
“Incoming!”
He sprinted the last ten feet and landed amongst the occupants of that trench in a heap.
All shell bursts, bomb bursts, smoke or strange mist are treated the same way. Biological and chemical weapons can be delivered in many ways and artillery is a favourite of the Red Army.
“Gas! Gas! Gas!”
Although the drills state you have to be properly masked up within nine seconds, which was a rather optimistic figure. During the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan, British Special Forces came across a Mujahedin ambush in the mountains. Along a ridge was a line of tribesmen, all well camouflaged and already in the aim so as not to alert the enemy by unnecessary movement when they eventually turned up. It was a good site that they had picked, not too obvious, with little cover from fire or from view in the kill zone. It also had a good choice of egress routes for the ambushers. The only trouble was the ambushers were already dead when the enemy came and went unmolested. There were no bulging eyes, no terrible rictus of death with hooked fingers frozen in the act of clawing at throats in an effort to gain one last breath. They had just died, with no warning whatsoever, from a nerve agent sprayed by aircraft upwind of them.
Everywhere, the drill was carried out hurriedly, helmet off, mask on, hood up, buddy-buddy check the seals, helmet back on again. On the outside of their NBC suits, each soldier places sticky-back patches of litmus detector paper, if a chemical comes into contact with it, it will change colour. The section commanders and above had different detector paper, if their paper turns dark green, a nerve agent in vapour form is present. Yellow indicates a nerve agent gas and red is for a blister agent. At least that was what the manual claimed; Colin had personal experience in the Gulf War of the paper turning dark brown and even gold. The simple rule was, if it changes colour…worry!
Their own position received relatively little attenti
on in that first opening barrage, which is more than could be said for the forward slopes, the known and the suspected targets, identified by physical reconnaissance and Elint, electronic Intel in the form of radio direction finding.
The Soviets have long been lovers of rocket artillery from multiple launch tubes, for similar reasons that the Luftwaffe placed sirens on the bottoms of Junkers, Ju-87 Stuka dive-bombers. The banshee shrieks of their imminent arrival tears at the nerves and induces panic. Although not terribly accurate, the warheads pack a punch, as the battalion was to discover. Bm-21 ‘Grads’ scattered their 40x122mm rockets from the backs of lorries, as they followed behind the advance. Further back, Bm-27 ‘Urgan’s’ 220mm loads joined the more modern 9A52-2 ‘Smerch’s’ 300mm rockets, in giving the rear areas their indiscriminate attention.
The trench was dug for two men and not three, Colin bundled the lawful occupants into the covered shelter bay whilst he crouched in the firing bay and waited for the initial barrage of the rear to lighten. He left the trench and crawled back to his own, midway he noticed the detector paper on his left sleeve turn yellow. Chemical attacks come in various forms, ‘blood agents’ will turn your blood to quick drying cement, and ‘nerve agents’ will attack your nervous system, while you are busy thrashing on the ground, your lungs fill with fluid and effectively you drown. Choking agents are heavier than air gases, very effective against entrenched positions, whilst everyone is sheltering from the barrage below ground, the gases flow, seeking the lowest point, pouring unseen into trenches and displacing the breathable air. In short, you either choke to death or get above ground and above the rising level of gas…into the shrapnel filled environment you originally dug the trench to escape.
Colin got back to his own trench where he could see Oz’s eyes behind the respirator screw up in a smile, glad to see his old mate back safe and sound. Colin crawled into the shelter bay where he used a field telephone to send a ‘Chemrep’ to the battalion CP, informing them that chemical weapons were in use.