by Andy Farman
“Sunray Three One, send over?” answered Colin. ‘Sunray’ is the name for a unit or sub-units commander and the CSM was now the acting platoon commander of No. 1 Platoon, 3 Company.
“Zulu Three One Alpha, we see figures four Papa Tango Seventy-Twos and figures six Bravo Mike Papas headed your way, over!”
“Three One roger…all Zulus standby to collect your call signs and Foxtrot Oscar.” he rolled to the side and stuck his head out the back of his tiny sangar before calling out to Arnie.
“Regimental Sarn’t major…!”
When Arnie’s face appeared, Colin gave him the thumbs down gesture, the sign for ‘enemy’.
“Armour and APCs coming our way…our carriages await us to foxtrot oscar, pee dee quu!”
Arnie nodded. “I’ll stay with my guys until you get mounted!” but Colin shook his head.
“My wagons closest sir, I’ll keep my section here until I hear that thing in your hand, then we’ll bug out.”
It was the practical thing to do and Arnie nodded in agreement.
Colin dragged the radio out of his sangar and pulled it onto his back as he crawled across to the section of Coldstreamers from his vehicle.
“Lance Sarn’t Daid, give it some!”
He let the section commander give the order for rapid fire and twisted his head to watch as RSM Moore shepherded the remainder out of the back door.
Colin hand his rifle to the gimpy gunner.
“Gimme the gun…get them moving lance sarn’t, I’ll be right behind you.”
The first BMP and light tank appeared as they ran for the door, and Colin aimed short bursts at their vehicle commanders’ heads, which were peering out in the direction of the rather battered warehouse, before he turned and sprinting for the far doorway.
He didn’t hear the light tanks main gun fire, but its shell entered the front of the warehouse through a gap in the brickwork and struck a weakened roof support at the back. Colin found himself sat on his backside and choking on the dust and smoke from the explosion that had collapsed of the roof at the back end of the building. He could see enough to know that the only way out was through the front, under the Russian guns.
“All stations Three One, from Sunray, I’m screwed…bug out, NOW!”
His soldiers’ instincts were to come back and try to extract him, but he was a company sergeant major and they were the Guards, which meant that you did as you were told at the time and bitched about it later.
Popping smoke, the Warriors beat feet for friendly lines whilst keeping the warehouse between themselves and the enemy AFVs.
Colin looked at the belt on the gun; he had about fifteen rounds remaining although he still had one full magazine in his left pouch. He crawled back the way he had come and gathered up discarded links, ejected from the gimpy along with the empty cases. It hardly made much difference to his chances, five short bursts worth, but on emptying his magazine he hurriedly linked up the twenty rounds into a belt, that he then clipped to the end of the one already on the gun, after that he just waited.
After throwing smoke, Nikoli, his platoon, and one other closed in on the wrecked warehouse. All the loops made in the walls by the NATO troops had received a round apiece from the BMPs 23mm cannons.
He had been prepared to request that the building be flattened; rather than lose any more good men, however, the divisional commander himself was on scene and wanted prisoners.
On reaching the comparative safety on the front wall without taking casualties, Nikoli’s unwelcome attachment had approached to within three feet of a damaged section of wall, and called out in English. The hole made by the defenders had been the size of two bricks; the APCs cannon had widened it enough to crawl through, if one were feeling suicidal of course.
Nikoli was close behind the man, who had burdened him with the added responsibility of his presence.
“Hello in there, why don’t you come on out…without your weapons of course”?
After a few moments a voice had answered.
“Why aye…an’ why don’t yez jus’ fuckin’ come on in too, like…we out yer bondook of course, hinney?”
Colonel General Alontov turned to Nikoli with a frown on his face. “I do not have the faintest idea of what he said?”
Nikoli was frowning too.
“He’s a Geordie sir, from Tyneside in the north-east of England, the north side of the river Tyne where it runs through the city of Newcastle, to be exact…and his wife’s name is Janet.”
Alontov stared at the young lieutenant, he was not even aware that the man even spoke the language, now it seemed he was an expert in dialects…and possibly having a joke at his commanders expense.
“Company Sarn’t Major Probert…Colin, stop fucking about and come out. None of you will be harmed…it’s Lieutenant Bordenko.”
“Fanny M…well fuck me but it’s a small world!”
Colin had laid the accent on thick when the first voice had called on him to surrender. On hearing his friend’s voice he answered in his usual accent, which was much diluted by years in the army.
“Lieutenant…?” Alontov queried his subordinate.
“I spent some time as an observer with the British Army, until the war started in fact sir. That man is a friend of mine…and a very good soldier, he may well decide to go down fighting.”
Alontov looked at his watch; the last two battalions from the city would be arriving very shortly. He had a battle to fight and this diversion would have to be curtailed.
“You have five minutes to persuade him to lead his men out, after that time I will destroy the building, lieutenant…” but Nikoli had lain down his weapon and pushed past the general, dropping down and was squirming through the hole.
Colin had been trying to watch all possible entrances at once when smoke wafted in from the outside and he had pounding feet. To the best of his knowledge, the enemy had taken no prisoners at the river and if he was not shot out of hand he had no desire to be tortured. It had come as a shock to hear Nikoli calling him by name and the daylight was blocked out from one of the holes, but he held his fire. In the gloomy interior, the only illumination was that provided by the light streaming through holes made by enemy fire. He recognised Nikoli by his breathing as he pulled himself through the hole.
“Hold your fire!” Nikoli paused when he heard Colin shout; he could see little and did not want his good deed for the day to end with a bullet, blunt or sharp edged instrument
“If you’re the first to surrender Fanny, it’s going to get a wee bit crowded in here, mate.”
Nikoli peered into the interior, trying to locate the voice. It sounded as if it came from down low so he looked there, but there were only shadows, some darker than others were. He kept his hands in plain view and looked carefully around him, if he hadn’t known better he could have sworn that he was alone here.
“Lieutenant…are you all right?” queried Alontov’s voice from without.
“Well Colin…am I?”
A dark shape separated from a deep shadow and stood, the dull clink of belted ammunition reached Nikoli’s ears.
“You can tell him you are fine, mate, but I have no intention of surrendering my arms just so you can put a bullet in the back of my head or pull my teeth without anaesthetic.”
Nikoli was a little puzzled but called.
“I am in no danger, Colonel General sir.”
“Good,” came the general’s reply. “But you have only three minutes young lieutenant…So use them well.”
“Your people kill our troops after they surrender, or are captured…even the wounded!” He explained what had happened at the river, and what he knew of similar events in Belorussia.
Nikoli could see that Colin was apparently relaxed, yet the nozzle of the GPMG that hung from his shoulders by a webbing sling never wavered from where it was pointing, at his own midriff. Colin continued.
“I thought I knew you better than that Fanny, do you agree with it …or just look the
other way?”
“I know nothing of this Colin…honestly. You have my word that our orders are to treat all prisoners according to the rules of the Geneva Convention…to the letter,” he added sincerely.
Despite their different ranks, the two men had been friends at Brecon and Colin weighed up the Russian officers words. If he stayed here he would die, but if he left with Nikoli, he would always have the possibility of escape.
“Ah bollocks!”
He turned sideways on to Nikoli and opened the gimpy’s top cover, allowing the belt of rounds to fall away and carried out a complete unload. Nikoli let out a breath of relief as he watched the dark outline of the British soldier remove the gimpy’s butt, slide out the working parts and throw them into the darkness.
They emerged from the hole into the daylight where Nikoli nodded to two of his paratroopers who stripped off the Guardsman’s webbing and searched him. While this was going on Nikoli approached the general.
“Sir, do you know of any orders to kill prisoners?” Alontov frowned as his lieutenant related the British soldiers’ words.
“I know this man well sir, he is too intelligent to be taken in by propaganda, if he says it happened then it probably did.”
The colonel general was a complex man, who on the one hand had approved the destruction of entire cities if it restored his Motherland, the Rodina, to its rightful place, yet on the other hand the murder of fighting men who served their own countries bravely, disgusted him. As a professional, he knew that his enemies would fight all the harder if they believed they had nothing to lose. When it had been confirmed that only the Washington bomb had gone off, he had felt secretly relieved, although it only meant they would have a tougher fight on their hands.
During the planning of this war, the question of prisoners had naturally been planned for. Enemy troops were to be placed into internment camps until all resistance to the new Soviet Union had been overcome. The anticipated, massive destruction would require a workforce to rebuild the cities and infrastructure. Who better to serve as the core of that workforce than the captured troops?
“Blindfold him and bind him properly lieutenant, take him to the brigade headquarters here at the airport. I want to question him later but in the meantime you and your men are to guard him, understood?”
London, England: 1100hrs, same day.
The US Embassy in Grosvenor Square is one of the few buildings in the British Isles to call its ‘ground floor’ the ‘first floor’. It is one of the little details that separates the British from the Americans, along with driving on the wrong side of the road and having not having roundabouts at road junctions.
Security for visitors is not oppressive once you enter the door; that begins once you try to go up, to the floors above. Scott Tafler and Max Reynolds were ensconced in the ‘clean room’ upstairs. Its construction and constant screening made it secure from all known forms of eavesdropping.
“No one is happy with our borrowing an entire squadron of F-117As, and a half dozen B-2s, even if it is only for one night for most of them. Those stealth fighters of the Ruski’s took us all by surprise, and NATO wants the Nighthawks over Germany to counter them.” Scott informed the head of the London station.
“The air force will do as its told, the joint chiefs have given the plan their full backing, plus there will be six Raptors arriving from stateside this lunchtime.” Scott was intrigued.
“Six Raptors, is that all they have?” The project had cost billions and was years behind schedule.
“Congress has a hard-on for one size fits all, one aircraft for all the services, that’s why the Tomcat’s the navy has are irreplaceable, all the tooling to build more was destroyed.”
Scott was appalled.
“How the hell are they going to replace the losses we’ve had…and which asshole ordered the tooling destroyed?”
“I am not at liberty to say…however, the SecDef was what the Brits would call ‘A right wanker’.” Scott grimaced at the appalling Hollywood cockney accent.
“At present there are only one hundred and twenty one Tomcats still in existence, I understand that there are some A-6 Intruders out at the bone yard that are being refurbished, made ready to replace the strike assets that have gone. As to the question of congressional stupidity…try writing to your congressman.”
“Wasn’t there a retired Admiral who proposed buying the production licences for Russian airframes and putting US engines in them, at a fraction of the cost?” Scott asked.
“There was, but the big US military manufacturing community, had too many people on The Hill tucked in their pockets for that to ever be realistic…I guess we are paying the price for electing some people who make straight for the trough. They have delivered on one aspect though; we are getting more anti-satellite missiles.”
Scott nodded and got back to the matter at hand.
“The buddy stores capability of the Spirits has helped a hell of a lot with the tanking aspect of the mission, according to the air force planners.”
“What about our crew and the weapon?” Max emphasised the last word.
“It arrives tomorrow, system checks have been completed and it’s good to go. So is the pilot and bombardier, the air force ran psychological tests on them both, they’ll push the button when the time comes. At the moment they are putting in simulator time before strapping in and scaring the sheep in the Highlands.”
“On the subject of nuking a piece of Russia, how are Major Bedonavich and Miss Vorsoff taking it?” Max asked him.
“Neither was naïve enough to believe that we would, or could put troops on the ground to capture or kill the leadership. I didn’t even try to pretend that we would even consider it as an option. Major Bedonavich has actually been in one of the bunkers, and that was a help in itself because it was the first that we knew, that particular one existed.” Scott rubbed his chin.
“He is not ecstatic about using a bomb on a bunker, in his country or anywhere else on the planet for that matter, but he believes it is the only way.”
“It has got to be hard on the man, it’s not a position I would like to be in if I were called on to facilitate the dropping of one on America…how about the girl?”
“I don’t think we have a problem with either of them, on that count.”
Max Reynolds forehead creased a fraction, he was a ‘people reader’, trained to read body language and pick up on minute clues as to what may be going on in another person’s head.
“What?” was all he asked Scott now.
Tafler took out two folders, one slightly fatter than the other. He handed over the larger one first.
“Debrief section, last page, and the third paragraph down.”
Max turned to the page in question and looked up at Scott when he finished reading.
“Does Major Bedonavich know about this?”
“If he does he hasn’t said…and I did not see that any purpose could be served in broaching the subject to him.” He then handed over the second folder, which bore the FBIs logo and the subject’s name. “Findings section, second page.”
Max started to read and raised his eyebrows soon after, before double checking the name on the front of the folder and reading it again.
Near the Oder River, Poland: 1128hrs, same day.
Forests cover almost twenty-eight percent of Poland, much of it untouched by forestry management, and although it did not make for classic tank country it did provide good natural cover for a defender. Four miles from the Oder River in the 1940’s, the German Wermacht had built a bunker complex within the primeval forest, and the Soviet Red Army had improved and expanded it in the 1960’s. Today it appeared to be as abandoned and neglected as it had been since the Soviets had quit. The chain link fence surrounding it was rusted and hanging away from supporting posts in quite a few places, and the minefield had been cleared years before. Birds and animals from the forest had taken up residence in the reinforced concrete guard posts and there was nothing
to suggest that it was the nerve centre for the defence of Poland against her old Russian occupier and allies.
Joseph Ludowej accompanied his minister on the seven-mile journey along the tunnel of a worked out coalmine before reaching a much newer, vertical shaft. A lift had taken them up to the command centre, sixty feet below the surface where his president, cabinet and High Command of all the polish armed forces was gathered with their staffs and the NATO liaison team. The minister was as tired and fraught as his personal secretary was, so he had not noticed how withdrawn the man had been over the last few days. Joseph’s work had not been lacking; there was nothing there to indicate that he was under any greater stress than was to be expected, given the current circumstances. The polish army and air force were planning to drive across the border into Belorussia and into the flank of the Red Army Group that had finished reconstituting after the kick in the teeth it had received earlier. Joseph knew that much, but not the details.
The minister left him in an anteroom with various other functionaries before passing through to the war room and Joseph looked about him, nodding to acquaintances as he counted heads. He had deliberately mislaid the ministers briefcase before they had left on the journey to reach this place, delaying them for almost thirty minutes to ensure they would be last to arrive. Everyone else was here, the heads of all the armed forces and the cabinet, so Joseph began his play acting, swearing softly under his breath as he hurriedly opened his own briefcase and reached inside it. There was little room for documents inside the case, but he opened it in such a way as to conceal the true contents and depressed a switch before removing a folder and closing the case once more. He held the folder high and rushed toward the war rooms’ door as if he had an important document he had forgotten to give to the minister. The armed sentry on the door knew Joseph by sight and name, the Defence Ministers personal secretary always had a smile and a cheery greeting for everyone, unlike some of them who were too full of their own self-importance to so much as say good morning. Joseph was relieved that the sentry did not argue or hinder him but held the door wide, permitting him to enter. No one inside the war room noticed his entrance except an air force colonel when Joseph jostled him. The colonel was about to ask him his business but noticed Joseph was muttering to himself, it sounded like