The Fall of Night

Chapter Nine: While Europe Slept

Moscow, Russia

It was the 30^th of May.

“This is the point of no return,” Margarita Sergeyevna Pushkina said. The FSB officer sipped her drink carefully. She was never one to get drunk, something that was wise for a woman in Russia. “Everything is in place; the chaos will begin in two days and… well, we would be committed.”

President Nekrasov smiled to himself. “How certain are you of success?”

Margarita flushed slightly. “The people we ourselves emplaced will carry out their missions or die trying,” she said. “Some of them may be detected by the local authorities — too late. There is nothing perfect in any of these plans; we could lose half of the operations and still win, particularly the random terror part of the operations. We built so much redundancy into the plan just in case we lost half of our people; frankly, I expected to lose more than we have.”

Shalenko leaned forwards angrily. “We have lost people?”

“Four of our people were picked up by the German police within Berlin, following a major riot against Turkish immigrant workers,” Margarita said. “None of them knew much; even in the worst case, they couldn’t have told the Germans anything about the overall plan. A handful of Algerian illegal immigrants were picked up in France, but the French Government contented itself with dropping them into the refugee camps, rather than shooting them in the head or a rigorous interrogation.”

She grinned. “Frankly, I expected that the Algerians would have lost control over their own people well before we reached the point of no return,” she said. “We didn’t plan for that nincompoop in France calling for them all to be sterilised; idiot should have just waited a couple of months and he would have gotten much more than his wish. There were a handful of other nasty incidents, but the main body of the cells remained underground… and in any case, we can handle the important part of the mission without their help.”

“But I would be happy to have it,” Shalenko said, thinking cold thoughts about the dangers of an alert Europe facing his forces. He had expected to see sudden bursts of activity, expected to see the Germans, French and British suddenly realising their danger and dispatching their forces to the Polish border, as well as wiping out the sleeper agents and revising their rules of engagement to make survival a much more likely prospect for EUROFOR. “You know that we cannot rely on the enemy simply folding at the first blow.”

He closed his eyes for a moment. Russian military doctrine called for making the first blow of any offensive as hard as possible, to try to make the first blow the last blow… but it wouldn’t work in Europe. The enemy would have time to withdraw to more defensible lines if they had time to realise what was happening and the authority to order a general retreat. If they had a war going on in their own backyard, their commanding generals would have too many problems to handle and EUROFOR would disintegrate.

He hoped.

“I know,” Nekrasov said. “What are we facing?”

“In theory, we’re facing two divisions of European soldiers and the Polish Army,” Margarita said. “In practice, the Europeans are not working as an integrated group and two-thirds of the Polish forces remain un-mobilised. Even if they give the order now, they would have real problems getting them into position to actually oppose us before it was too late. The targeting plan will knock out most of their reserve forces and hopefully make it impossible for them to muster any of their home forces before it’s too late. For the French and Spanish, they will also be looking in the wrong direction, rather than towards us.”

Nekrasov nodded slowly. “The time is so slow,” he said, wryly. Shalenko recognised it as nerves and said nothing. “General, what about our own forces?”

Shalenko glanced down at his notes. “We have over forty divisions in the region or ready to move in as soon as we kick the offensive off,” he said. “Furthermore, we have five thousand dedicated Special Forces units operating behind the lines, all slipped into Poland and Germany and lying low for the offensive. Several other units will knock out the EUROFOR units in the Ukraine, while one division apiece has been dedicated to each of the Baltic States. None of them are particularly strong and have placed their faith in EUROFOR to defend them; we do not expect much trouble in overwhelming their defences.

“On the naval front, Admiral Volkov and Admiral Sulkin have their forces prepared for action,” he continued. “The Turks have turned a blind eye to our submarines as they move though the choke point there; officially, of course, they’re being moved to the bases in the north. The Northern and Baltic fleets are ready for operations in support of the army; we will move the Black Sea fleet through the choke point as soon as war is declared, unless the Turks decide to get involved. They shouldn’t — they’re not keen on the Europeans since they were told they couldn’t play in the European club — but it doesn’t matter. Our main priority in the Mediterranean is clearing the European Standing Force out of the way and assisting the Algerians, until the day that we knife them in the back. Again, there is no sign that the Europeans have any idea that anything is untoward; the only point of concern for them is the Gazprom strike.”

Nekrasov laughed shortly. The Gazprom Company handled almost all of Russia’s exports of energy supplies, including LNG; it wasn’t likely that its workers would want to strike. Now, however, there were over a dozen fully-loaded Gazprom tankers in a variety of harbours across Europe, all apparently held there by a strike. The Europeans had laughed and believed the claim that they were striking in Europe because strikers in Russia would be shot; the Russian Government had paid for the docking slips and negotiations were dragging on.

Or, at least, that was the official story.

“Finally, we will have over three thousand aircraft dedicated to the operation, from bombers and fighters to heavy transports that will support the paratroopers and the other forces behind enemy lines,” Shalenko concluded. “The doctrine has been revised countless times and prepared; we should be able to destroy most of the opposing air forces within the first week or force them to expand their supplies faster than they can replace them. At the worst case, the Americans will ship missiles and spare parts from America to the British, but they cannot replace pilots or airframes.”

Nekrasov smiled. “It was nice of the North Koreans to finally launch their offensive,” he agreed. “That should give the Americans something to worry about.”

Shalenko nodded. The North Koreans had pushed back the South Koreans and the Americans through sheer weight of firepower… and through some advanced weapons they had purchased from China before China had made its desperate grab for Taiwan, lost, and plunged into civil war. The Americans were rushing in more air power and soldiers from all over the world; insurgents in the Middle East were not slow to take advantage of it. The Americans would have their hands full.

Nekrasov looked up at him. “Alex, how good would you say our chances actually are?”

Shalenko had thought about it, time and time again, attempting to cut as many variables out of the equation as possible. The plan had been years in the making, but he knew, as well as anyone, that anything could go wrong. Friction had been built into the plan, but the urgent need to knock as much of EUROFOR out of the fighting within the first few hours had meant that there had been compromises made… some of them truly nerve-wracking. What would happen if…?

He owed Nekrasov a honest answer. “If everything goes to plan,” he said, “we should win the main body of the fighting within a month at most. We will then have to consolidate, ensure that the Algerians don’t get a chance to make their own gains permanent, and ensure that we secure most of what we need from Europe. Consolidation could take months, but our victory would be certain.

“If everything does not go to plan, we still have a good chance of winning, but at a much higher cost,” he continued. “We might also have to concede some gains to the Algerians, something that we don’t want and they will be working to force us to accept. If they trust us, I would be very surprised; they have to know that we intend to take most of the gains from Operation Stalin.”

“If worst comes to worst, we can block their shipping lanes and ship their people off to Siberia,” Nekrasov said. Shalenko nodded; the fate of the thousands of people in Europe who were considered either dangerous or worthless had already been decided. The FSB would handle that part and do so with gusto. “There’s no need to permit their dangerous cancer to spread into our new lands.”

“The most dangerous prospect is that of a nuclear release,” Shalenko said. “The ABM system is good, but if there is one failure… disaster. Whatever it takes, we have to ensure that there is no permission for nuclear release.”

“That has been taken care of,” Margarita said coldly. “Whatever happens, no politician in a position of power will survive the opening rounds of the war.”

Shalenko nodded. “I have been speaking to the commanding officers and the soldiers,” he said. “Most of them are certain that they can handle the missions, many of them are looking forward to it, seeing that Europe was behind many of their woes in Belarus. The important thing is to keep moving; cities can be reduced later, but mobile forces must be destroyed as rapidly as possible. A pause could prove fatal.”

“I know,” Nekrasov said. He looked up towards the portrait of Stalin on the wall. Russians had both feared and loved Stalin; Shalenko knew that no one, apart from Nekrasov himself, had come close to the ideal of the Russian leader. “Are you going to be taking up your command in Belarus?”

Shalenko nodded. “I have a flight back tonight,” he said. “Time enough to ensure that everything goes to plan and that the Poles remain quiet long enough for us to take over quickly. Civilian resistance could put an unexpected spanner in the works.”

“If that happens,” Nekrasov said, “deal with it. No scruples.”

Shalenko bowed his head. “No scruples,” he agreed.

Near Warsaw, Poland

The fire was a tiny concession to the campfire atmosphere of the location, Robinson had decided, when Captain Jacob Anastazy had lit it. Nothing had happened in the week that they had remained in their position, nothing of importance anyway; the only excitement had been a flight of aircraft leaving Russia that had turned out to be civilian aircraft that had been routed away from the Ukraine. He missed Hazel, more than he could admit, even to himself; her sheer presence was missing from his mind. Emails… just didn’t come up to it.

Dear Hazel, he wrote, and concentrated on several passages designed to remind her of just what he was missing in Poland. I hope that you are enjoying yourself in Edinburgh and that you did get to see the McCalmans like you intended; I wish that I could have gone with you and the old man. How is he, by the way? Is he still nagging you about grandchildren?

The thought almost brought a tear to his eye. It was possible, of course, that they could have had children. He had just felt as if it wasn’t the time, even though they had been having more unprotected sex lately. Some of the soldiers were in their teens; they had never even thought of getting married, even if there were advantages in the army to having a wife. A couple of them were openly homosexual; Robinson didn’t care, as long as they remained within the rules of fraternisation. The British Army might never have quite adapted to the concept of homosexual behaviour, but as long as there was a manpower shortage…

He was wracking his brains for something else to say when Sergeant Ronald Inglehart appeared in the command tent. “Captain,” he said, “the journalists have arrived.”

Robinson had to smile at his tone. He couldn’t have announced the arrival of child molesters and rapists with more disdain. “Thank you,” he said, as he put the laptop aside and came out of the tent. Two women stood there, one of them clearly British, the other Polish; he remembered Captain Jacob Anastazy telling him about the Polish reporter. She was some relative of his, he recalled; a heart-stopping young woman with honey-blonde hair. Robinson found himself surprisingly tongue-tied as he faced her. “Welcome to the camp.”

“Thank you,” the Englishwoman said. She was dark-haired and surprisingly attractive in her own right. “We won’t be staying long, Colonel; we merely need to get some background interviews.”

“Of course,” Robinson said, watching as two of the soldiers played court to Marya Jadwiga. Anastazy was looking more and more grim as they chatted about nothing in particular. Robinson had read, once, that American soldiers had often brought home a Polish bride; looking at Marya, it was easy to see why. “What do you need to know?”

“I’m Caroline, by the way,” the woman said. Robinson blushed at the amusement in her voice and reminded himself that he was a married man. “How are you enjoying your time out here?”

Robinson laughed at the question. “It could be better,” he said, “but so far it has been more like an adventure holiday than anything else.” He had gone on an adventure holiday with Hazel once; he had found it trite and easy after actually soldiering with people trying to kill him. The instructor hadn’t known half as much as he had; he shuddered to think what an SAS trooper would have made of it. Mincemeat, probably. “We’re just sitting here waiting for something to happen and monitoring this particular section of Polish airspace.”

Caroline seemed to understand. “Do you get bored out here?”

“It beats Sudan,” Robinson admitted. He had to smile when he looked over at Marya; if the poor girl wasn't careful, she was likely to end up with a very different kind of background interview. He had had to discipline a soldier once for sending a request to a female correspondent for a more revealing photograph and had been laughing too hard to make a proper job of the chewing out. “In a week, we’ll be somewhere else, perhaps guarding somewhere even more important, but until then…”

Caroline nodded in understanding. “And don’t you want a real barracks?”

“Most of us would sooner sleep naked than sleep in a soviet-built barracks,” Robinson said. “Have you ever slept in one?” She eyed him carefully, and then shook her head. “It explains why many Red Army soldiers were nasty bastards; they just couldn’t sleep properly.”

“Ah,” Caroline said. “What about the Poles? Do you have any contact with the locals?”

Robinson opened his mouth to answer, and then stopped. There was something wrong; he could feel it, right on the edge of his instincts. He couldn’t have explained it to her; it was just a sense that something wasn’t quite right, somewhere. He had had it in the Sudan, just before some refugees had brought out swords — swords, for the love of God — and started to hack apart their fellows.

“No,” he said slowly. “It’s very tranquil out here.”

London, United Kingdom

Major-General Charles Langford stepped out of the Convent Garden Royal Opera House with the sense that, finally, something was going his way. He had always loved the opera — not the depressing and seemingly endless Wagner operas, but the light-hearted Gilbert and Sullivan operas — and going to see a properly produced version of one was delightful. The Mikado might have run afoul of the Race Relations Board, but the sheer torrent of protest had brought the Board to heel for once; only a handful of people could be bothered to picket the first production since the edict was repealed.

The sun was fading in the sky as he climbed onto the underground train, waving his ID card at the young Pakistani manning the barrier, who glanced around and then gave Langford the finger. The temptation to report the young man was overwhelming, but Langford forced it down; it wasn't easy getting a job these days. There were times when Langford wondered if it wasn’t just worth taking early retirement, or even leaving the country altogether. England was no longer what it once was…

He got off the underground train — technically, over half of the network was actually above ground — and walked up the hill towards his flat. His mother had left him her house in Croydon when she had died, but it was large enough for a family and Langford lived alone in Redhill, near London, but not quite part of the city. He passed a group of grieving Indians on the way, the weeping women dressed in brightly-coloured clothes, and headed out onto the hill. He was on leave, technically, even though he didn’t really want to go anywhere. There was plenty of reading he wanted to catch up upon, but for the moment, all he wanted to do was pace. The hill was empty; most of the young men and women who used it would have gone to the community centre, even though it was turning into a haven for crime. It was starting to look if Britain was already dead, and men like him were only struggling against the inevitable.

Trying to banish such thoughts, he sat on the bench and looked out towards the sunset. It all seemed so safe and tranquil.