Advance to Contact

CHAPTER FIVE

The new day heralded a foot on the next rung up the ladder, in Ms Danyella Foxten-Billings career in politics. She had been absent from her trendy London Mews since the start of the war, staying at an out of the way house in Wales and only returning the previous day to attend the funeral of Matthew St Reever’s, the man who had taken a job previously promised to her.

The ceremony had been a solemn affair, as funerals tend to be, on a cold grey day, in the midst of the snows thaw, but it had allowed her to wear black, and she knew that she looked good in black.

She had dabbed away non-existent tears during the ceremony and at its end had uttered insincere platitudes to Reever’s widow, a woman who in her opinion most certainly did not suit black, it just accentuated her plain looks.

It had been after she’d left the widow’s side that the new Prime Minister had approached her with the offer to take up the now vacant post.

Two hours later, having seen his wife safely off he had joined her at her Mews, but she had made him put it in writing and telephone his press secretary with instructions for the press release announcing it, before she had allowed him to undress her and carry her to the bed to seal the deal. She’d kept the expensive black lace stockings and suspender belt on though, and had admired her reflection in a large wall mirror during the act, looking damned good in black as she’d literally ridden a column of power.

This morning she was lying in bed pondering how to make her mark from the onset, when the doorbell rang.

Her lover of the previous night had left in the early hours so she slipped from the bed, pulling on a midnight blue silk wrap as she headed for the door.

Police Sergeant Harry Chapman had been outside the Mews since shortly after midnight, having been roused from his own bed by a phone call. His instructions were to have his new principle up north by noon, and there was a flight awaiting them at RAF Northolt. Having seen no signs of movement within the address he thought that now was as good a time as any to make introductions, and besides which he was bursting for a slash.

The woman who answered the door was probably even more attractive than her photographs indicated, but then the wild haired look will do that to a girl.

“Good morning Ms Foxten-Billings.” He held out his warrant card for her to examine. “I am Sergeant Chapman; I’m the skipper on your close protection team. We have instructions to get you on a flight that leaves in two hours from Northolt.”

Danyella looked him up and down, noting the creases in his suit and that he would need to shave before too long. She wasn’t impressed and didn’t give a damn that he and the rest of the officers had spent a cold uncomfortable night for her benefit.

She smiled coldly at him.

“Thank you, I will be ready in under an hour… is there anything else?”

Harry was slow on the uptake this morning, or he wouldn’t have asked if he could possibly use her lavatory.

Danyella’s smile remained fixed.

“And I suppose you wouldn’t object to using my kitchen to get a coffee for yourself and the boys while I’m getting ready?”

Harry smiled back gratefully.

“That would be very generous of you, thank you.” But his principle shut the door firmly in his face before he could take a step forward across the threshold.

The incident was dismissed from her mind as she began to get herself ready.

Her mind was busy, not with how she would measure up to the very critical job she now held, but with how to make the world know that she had arrived. She needed something big, something historic, but what?

She hadn’t been exaggerating when she had said she would be ready in so short a time. Her suitcases had been packed since word had arrived of St Reever’s demise. She needed only to shower, dress, and apply the minimum of make-up before she would summon the gun-toting oafs to fetch her bags.

Having turned on her shower she made herself a coffee and was heading back to the bathroom when she tripped on a jumbled pile of newspapers beside the door.

The previous day she had been forced to lean on the door, to force it open because of the weight of accumulated broadsheets and tabloids that lay below the letterbox. She had kicked them aside in a flurry of newsprint, and left them where they lay as she had been more concerned with looking good at the funeral, than with housekeeping, but now with annoyance she glared at the items whilst stripping off her coffee splashed wrap.

Her house mistress at Roedean would have been aghast at the utterances that emitted from Danyella’s mouth, but then Danyella stopped in mid-sentence and crouched down, studying an article that had caught her eye. The house in Wales had been too far from a newsagent for daily deliveries, and her news intake had been exclusively the television, she realised now she had missed all but the main news stories.

In what was normally one the most bleak and arid regions of the planet; the crisp white snow had given the mountains a picture postcard air. Richard Dewar paused to allow the single line of soldiers to close up, and took the opportunity to admire the surroundings, but it was a momentary event.

So far, since dropping into the high valley, they had covered a mere seven miles as the crow flies, but the majority of the daylight hours had been spent on a mainly vertical face that had one bitch of an overhang between the third and fourth belay’s. Major Dewar had led the climb with Corporal Alladay bringing up the rear and retrieving as many of their limited supply of pitons as he could.

Garfield Brooks and Shippey-Romhead joined the Royal Marine Major, breathing heavily as they trudged through the yard deep snow to his side. Richard was munching away on a chocolate bar when they reached him, and he broke off some cubes of the fruit and nut confectionary and handed them across.

“I wonder how many hundreds of years ago it last snowed here?” he asked them.

Garfield glanced around, they were on a narrow plateau with just a low ridge separating them from the valley beyond, and it looked to him what he thought a mountain range should look like.

“Isn’t this usual?”

Richard knew what the Green Beret was thinking.

“Not at this altitude, these are just the babies of the range, the big ones are further west… starting about forty or so miles off, they have permanent glaciers on the highest ones. I am a little worried by what a sudden thaw will do here; it could sweep a lot of accumulated loose earth and rock into the valleys so we could have landslides… and flash floods down below will be a nightmare.”

Neither of the other officers had given any thought to that aspect, the messed up weather patterns would have a knock-on effect that would have to be considered globally, for years to come.

“Have you thought why the Chinese built their sites here… apart from the security aspect of being in a remote area, and defensibility of course?”

“I guess that would be the geology and the weather, no earthquakes, volcanic activity, and no floods or snowfall to worry about.” Shippey-Romhead ventured.

“So if you were the commander of this region, and you saw what we are seeing… ” Richard asked, “… What would you do?”

Garfield swore under his breath.

“I’d ship in a small army of labourers to do some emergency drainage construction, to prevent my missile sites from getting flooded out.”

Richard nodded in agreement. “Let’s hope they don’t get air transport priority, and this same weather has blocked the railway line further south, so they haven’t got here yet. Otherwise there could be a few thousand extra pairs of eyes about.”

Looking southwest Richard saw the horizon darkening. They still had three hours of daylight left, but he ordered everyone to start preparing for the night.

Garfield protested.

“We still have a few hours left; we can be halfway to the next valley floor in that time.”

“In under two hours’ time we could be experiencing one bitch of a storm.” He inclined his head toward the low ridge, “We will have that to act as a windbreak, and if it has blown itself out by morning we can continue on… in the meantime I want all the guys preparing for a blow, and temperatures falling below minus twenty.”

A large building of ugly 60’s design occupies the small street across the Lambeth Road from the official residence of the Archbishop of Canterbury, and the contrast is harsh.

The earliest parts of Lambeth Palace had been built in the 1400’s, Tudor times, on land where Christian churches have stood since 1062. High walls seal off its elegant gardens from the twenty first century, but from the balcony of the canteen that served the Metropolitan Police Forensic Laboratories, a glimpse of another world could be had, least ways in the winter it could, when the branches of the trees lining Lambeth Road were bare.

Dennis Roper wasn’t in the canteen; he rarely ate there, preferring instead the sandwiches his wife made for him each morning. He munched on them now at his workspace as he tried to make a dent in the backlog of work allotted to him.

Dennis’s job was comparing tool marks and footmarks found at crime scenes with those found at other scenes, and hopefully against arrest records, those ‘hits’ made for good copy on clear-up reports. It was a job that required concentration but he had a computerised database with which to run his comparisons.

He hadn’t had any really tasty crimes to work on so far this week, just burglaries and auto crime, and he finished writing up the results of his search on tool marks from a council flat burglary, before lifting the next Form 5223 from the ‘Awaits’ pile. On the form were written the notes, comments and brief circumstances by the SOCO, scene of crimes officer, who had attended the scene, but Dennis rarely gave those more than a quick glance.

This new job was a boot mark found at the scene of a burglary in Purley, at the premises of a chemist shop. It seems the burglar had trodden on a sheet of paper whilst carrying out an untidy search, probably for drugs Dennis mused.

Removing the sheet of paper in question from an exhibits bag that came with the SOCOs notes, Dennis scanned it into the memory, set the correct scale of the image, added the crime and job numbers, and began the search by identifying the make of footwear that used the shape of tread on the exhibit, and then the foot size. Petty thieves rarely wander far, and wear and tear constantly erodes the tread, so he set the search for a twenty-five mile radius and for the previous six months only.

Dennis pressed enter, and left something with a far bigger memory than his own to do the legwork whilst he finished his sandwiches and made himself a cup of tea using the department kettle in a side room, to wash down the cheese and pickle.

By the time he arrived back at his workspace, blowing on the surface of the hot beverage to cool it slightly, the search had been completed within the parameters he had set, so he was surprised to find the most likely ‘hit’ had a reference to a police force several hundred miles outside the geographic parameters he had selected. Dennis was aware that high profile, serious or confidential cases could be ‘flagged in’ to every database in the country, but this was the first time it had occurred on one of his jobs, and he was still thinking just that when the phone at his elbow began to ring.

Within walking distance of the forensic laboratories another equally unimposing building sits on the banks of the River Thames.

Tintagel House is the home of the people who police the police in London, although that organisations name changes every few years at the whim of whatever Home Secretary happens to be holding office. A10, CIB, MS15 are three of the former names of the organisation now known as the Department of Professional Standards. If any single element of the Metropolitan Police Service has reaped the benefits of information technology, it has to be DPS. Their facilities made them uniquely placed to alert the various interested parties should any fresh leads appear in the unsolved matter of the murder of four members of the police and security forces in Scotland; which is how they knew Dennis had found a match at the same moment he did.

The war had denuded the Met of virtually all of its military reservists, and until retired members of the service could be recalled to take up the slack, the Met would continue to suffer under manning in all areas, and so it was that shortly after 4pm a contingent of a half dozen detectives from SO15, the Metropolitan Police Counter Terrorist Command arrived in the office of Croydon’s burglary squad to take over the investigation of a smash and grab at a Purley chemists shop.

The crew of Her Majesty’s submarine Hood had quickly slipped back into their ultra-quiet regime, after the hurried turn around at Pearl and high speed run to get on station. Those who were not on watch either slept or lost themselves in the much thumbed pages of dog-eared paperbacks, as this was about the only form of recreation left open to them. All non-essential systems were shut down and this included the ships TV and DVD player, not that anyone in the crew could ever again watch one of the war films in the ships library in quite the same way as they had before. They had experienced war for themselves and found it far scarier, less melodramatic, and not at all glorious.

Conversations were conducted in hushed tones, not that it was necessary, but that was what the present atmosphere induced in the crew.

HMS Hood had left her homeport of Faslane almost four months before on a cruise that should have ended weeks ago. Her crews brief had been to look good and fly the flag in the former stamping grounds of the empire.

The old naval base at Singapore now served cruise ships, not men-o-war flying the white ensign, and the huge facilities in Hong Kong had been dismantled prior to the People’s Republic of China resuming ownership. The lack of a Union Flag flying in the Far East had affected arms sales and prompted the despatch of HMS Prince of Wales, Malta, Cuchullainn, the Hood and the necessary fleet support vessels. Their role had changed suddenly and they were now the sole surviving warship of that group.

The Petty Officers kept the men as busy as they could, giving the hands as little time as possible to dwell on events, but there was a limit to what could be polished and scrubbed, and those activities ceased once the Hood arrived in her patrol area.

The conversation in the vessels Ward Room was that of the war, their present mission, and the morale of the crew.

The captain was present, by invitation, because by the traditions of the Royal Navy the Ward Room is for the ships officers, not her captain.

Space is not something that is foremost in the minds of submarine designers, so even without the full complement of ships officers present, because half were on watch, it was rather cramped.

For many of her crew this had been their first taste of war, for others it had also been their first cruise.

It had come as a bit of a shock to the system for some, but on the whole the captain thought they had a crew to be proud of. He did of course think they had been lucky in that though.

“My first ship was HMS Plymouth, one of the old Leander class frigates,” the captain recalled. “My first cruise was the Falklands Task Force, a hell of an initiation that was.” He sipped at the tea a steward had set before him, remembering the Argentinean Sky Hawks defying the tracer and missiles to bomb the ships. His own frigate had a Bofors, world war two anti-aircraft technology manned by eighteen-year-old ratings that had been the highest single source of scorers against the fighter-bombers. Strange how their courage and motivation had not been universal.

“I remember being quite gob-smacked that anyone in the service would try to leave on the grounds that they hadn’t joined the navy to fight. Some did though when it became clear that we were going to war, and I remember some technicians refused to go ashore after the landings at San Carlos Water. They were radar bod's and never expected to be so close to the fighting, but at the end of the day they had made a commitment to their country in return for food, lodging, wages, training and a skilled job they could later use in civilian life, and then they welched on the deal.”

The First Lieutenant stirred his own tea.

“What were your feelings toward them at the time sir?”

“I was younger then, I would have thrown them over the side.”

His subordinate smiled. “And now that you are older and wiser, sir?”

The captain also smiled, looking around at each of the officers as he replied.

“Now that I am older, as the First Lieutenant has so kindly pointed out, and wiser in the ways that make for an efficient military unit, I’d shoot the gutless little shits in the knees before sending them over the rail.” The smile did not exist in the captain’s eyes; he knew that for the ‘lack of moral fibre’ in one individual’s character, countless others could die. “Gentlemen… .” he continued. “… someone once said, ‘Courage is being the only one around who knows that you are afraid’. Now I don’t know who it was who said that, but he wasn’t a politician. We either have a crew who are very good at doing that, or a crew of psychopaths, and I know that I for one am not a fearless warrior, however, stresses and strains will wear anyone down, given time, so I want you all to keep an eye on the men.”

The conversation moved on to the intentions of the PRC, and the North Koreans, who had as yet to make an offensive move above mobilising the reserves. The captain held the opinion that they had not rolled south because China wanted their neighbour uncommitted militarily; a ready reserve and a flank guard for the PRC. Hood’s engineering officer had a different theory however. “Rumour has it that they have in recent years undergone a famine that wiped out millions, and now that they have called up the reserves there are too few left in rural areas to get the next harvest in. So if I were running things there, I wouldn’t want my army engaged elsewhere when the old brain washing breaks down and the populace say enough is enough.”

The engineer had little love for the North Koreans; his father had been in the 1^st Battalion, Gloucestershire Regiment during the Korean War. That single battalion which had held the ridge above the Imjin River from 22^nd April to 25^th April 1951 against 27,000 Chinese troops. When the ammunition ran out the 589 survivors of a once 1000 strong unit, had dispersed into the countryside, to escape and evade its way south, but his father had not been one of the 63 who had made it back to friendly lines, he had the misfortune of being captured by the North Koreans, rather than the Chinese.

In the engineer’s opinion, anything bad that happened to a people who had tortured his father to death had to be a good thing.

A steward brought in cold cuts and sandwiches, the same fare that the rest of the crew were eating today, but the meal was interrupted by the captain being summoned to the control room.

HMS Hood was on the trail of the Xia.

In a drab and colourless neighbourhood of Moscow, the description of which quite frankly mirrored ninety percent of that capital, a worried young man awoke after too little quality sleep, and too much cheap vodka.

Computer audits were unannounced events within the KGB, and something like volcanoes or earthquakes by their indiscriminate nature. Nobody, no matter what their rank or standing was immune to their effects. They had access to all areas of a departments systems, even the files on politburo members while they were checked for who had accessed them, and when.

For Udi, the dreaded audits had become the next Kyoto quake in that it was not so much imminent as much as according to predictions it was overdue.

He crawled out from under the covers, shivering in the frigid air as he fumbled with the single bar electric fire that served as his apartment’s sole dedicated source of heating.

There was less of a chill in the air of the other room, owing to the warmth emitted by an impressive computer set-up. Udi as a rule kept his system running for no more than six hours a day, more than that and his electricity bill made inroads into his less than generous wages, he was dreading the next one.

Only by uninstalling a large number of other programs, had Udi Timoskova been able to free up enough memory for his system to filter out the jamming on the disc. It had taken three days just to obtain the images he now had, and the quality was not the best.

So far he had blurry and distorted visuals of the dachas hallway, and no sound at all. He would leave the program running on the hallway and stairs download, before moving on to the upstairs room.

The only way he could do this was in stages, images first and then the sound, until he had a crystal clear article, and could see everything, and hear every word that been spoken in the dacha that night. He did not dare approach his boss with anything less, but time had to be running out before the unreported jamming that night was discovered, and when that happened Udi had better be ready.

Udi went to the bathroom and grimaced at the man that stared back at him, his skin looked almost grey. Running some water he quickly washed and shaved before pulling on some clothes, breakfast would have to wait until he got to work.

Leaving the program running, Udi put on his coat and left, carefully locking up behind him.

Admiral Gee, his aides and the President’s advisors stood as the chief executive entered. The relocation from Haddon’s Rock had been difficult, due to a broken helicopter, which had delayed occupation of this new site by almost twenty-four hours. However, the President had gotten to walk in the sunlight and breathe fresh, unfiltered air for the first time in weeks whilst awaiting a replacement aircraft to pluck him and his Secret Service detail from the midst of a curious, yet patently un-awed field full of dairy cattle.

The President had not been out of contact with the chain of command, he knew that the convoy had survived the night but not the details; this meeting was to bring him back up to speed.

“Sit down please ladies and gents.” He noticed a face that he had not seen since before the outbreak of hostilities, that of the FBI Director and he wondered what had brought Ben Dupre all the way out here.

Crossing to his own seat he paused and addressed the admiral.

“Don’t get me wrong Admiral, I think you are doing a stand up job… but where the hell is Henry Shaw?”

“Sir, he is still meeting with the various general staffs of the NATO countries.”

The president grunted.

“Getting his boots muddy and playing rifleman is more like. I want him back here in forty-eight hours at the latest, and no excuses Admiral.”

“I’ll see he gets the message, Mister President.”

Taking his seat he allowed Gee to open the brief on events in Europe.

“Mister President, in another thirty-six hours the convoy will begin arriving at the channel ports, and unloading its supplies and the four armoured divisions of 4^th Corps.”

“We lose any?”

“Of merchantmen, not a one Mister President. Conrad Mann foxed the Sov’s. While they beat on his warships, thinking it was the whole convoy, the merchant ships and their skeleton screen reached the air umbrella.”

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 2^nd Armoured Brigade, US 4^th 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, 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.

“Sarn’t Major!”

The angry bellow brought Arnie Moore from where he had been toiling with the drivers, orderlies and off watch signallers to complete the CP bunker.

“Sir?”

The CO was standing with hands on hips and apparently not about to shout across whatever had pissed him off, so the American paratrooper ducked back inside to re-emerge with personal weapon in one large fist and entrenching tool reattached to his fighting order, which he pulled on as he trotted down the slope to the Coldstream Guards CO.

“The track plan Sarn’t Major, is not being adhered to.”

No matter how skilfully the individual positions were camouflaged and concealed, and no matter how diligently signals security was applied, the unmistakable signs of human and vehicular traffic could undo it all. The only way to minimise such indications was to enforce the use of prescribed routes, and these had been given out following the locations initial recce prior to its occupation.

Arnie followed the Commanding Officers gaze and cursed to himself. They were all so damned tired that things were starting to slip, and he should not have had this particular lapse in discipline brought to his attention by the CO of all people.

“Right sir, I’m on it.”

Pat stalked off to the O Group, leaving the American to get it sorted.

Arnie headed for the nearest company location to breathe fire and brimstone on the NCOs, he could have taken a vehicle, following the correct tracks of course, but by going on foot he would see any other problems he might otherwise miss, and turning up unexpectedly would in itself remind everyone to stay on the ball.

He was just a few metres from 1 Platoons CP trench before Oz spotted him.

“Hide the grot mags and the still Colin, colonial approaching at our six!”

“Cut the shit sergeant, I’m here on official business.” Arnie drawled. “And I haven’t seen a decent porn mag amongst any of your guys.”

Colin backed out of the newly completed shelter bay and stood with a groan born of several hours digging, but the smile was as sincere as the extended, though grubby hand. “What did I hear Oz, he’s returning your light reading material and re-stocking the cocktail cabinet?”

“No such luck, just grumbling about there being no Hustlers ‘Barely a Ewe’. Typical country boy.”

Arnie gave Sergeant Osgood the finger and squatted down. “I just got a minor ass singeing from the CO over non-compliance with the track plan.”

Colin slopped some water into a his metal mug, added to it with some from Oz’s water bottle and Arnie dutifully handed over his own, payment for his share of the brew.

“Tea or coffee?” Colin asked.

“You always ask me that, and the answers the same as always.”

Colin gave him a malicious grin. “Tough shit, we’re out of coffee so you can have a civilised drink for once in your heathen life.” He lit a solid fuel tablet and placed it on the small folding stove. “I’ll get the section commanders together and read the riot act, but you know the underlying reason the same as I do?”

“The boys need a break.” Arnie answered.

“We all need a break!” Oz muttered as he carefully rolled long strips of turf back over the spoil that formed the overhead protection of the shelter bays roof.

Arnie let him complete the task before frowning critically.

If there was anything Sgt Osgood knew about, it was field engineering with pick and shovel, so he was instantly defensive when he noticed the American’s expression. “What?”

Arnie jumped into the fire bay before sticking his head inside the shelter bay for a brief look, and then kicking the trench wall like a prospective buyer tapping the tyres of a used car with a toecap. Finally he shook his head and clambered out of the trench.

“You’re going to have to fill it in and start again, guys.”

Colin caught the wink Arnie gave him and settled back to watch Oz take the bait.

“No we won’t!” indignantly challenging the American as if he had been asked to perform an indecent act, Oz stood up and looked for any obvious faults in its construction.

“It’s a bloody good trench that is, solid built and well cammed, with good arcs of fire!”

Arnie shook his head sympathetically.

“It’s facing in the wrong direction Sarn’t Osgood, and as for the shelter bay entrance, well… ” Like an art critic rubbishing a piece of work for reasons he felt should be obvious, he threw up his arms in despair.

Oz was incredulous.

“Waddaya mean its facing the wrong direction?” striding around to stand beside Arnie he peered at the scene north. “And what’s this shit about the entrance… where else would ya put it, ya soft twat!”

“It coddles the negative energy and deters the positive… ” Arnie ducked to avoid the Geordies backhand blow.

“You Texican wanker… you had me going, there!”

Colin removed a sachet of non-dairy whitening and then replaced it in his webbing; fishing into the depths of his bergen for a small can of Nestles evaporated milk instead. They needed a treat under the circumstances, he decided.

The field telephone at the end of the firebay buzzed and Colin lifted the handset, listening for a moment before replacing it with a grunt. He tugged on a length of communications cord and when a face appeared over the parapet of the nearest trench to theirs he laid a pair of extended fingers against his left bicep, summoning the section commander who resided in that fighting position. When the Lance Corporal arrived Colin nodded downhill. “The Q Blokes got a ration and ammo replen, take four blokes and play grocer, Corporal Bethers.”

The NCO doubled away and Colin shouted after him. “And follow the track plan!”

The water came to a boil and Colin served up a mug of strong, sweet tea, NATO style, which was handed around the trio while they talked over local issues.

L/Cpl Bethers and his fatigue party came and went, dropping off grenades, smoke, shermoulies, small arms ammunition, compo and topping up their water bottles from a jerry can.

Colin had started smoking again a week before, which made the three of them in deep trouble once their wives found out, unless of course they could break the habit before crossing the thresholds of their various homes once more. He lit up a cigarette and took a drag on it, enjoying the sensation.

“Two’s up.” Arnie said, the British Army slang came naturally to him now, and Colin passed it across, sharing as requested.

The explosion came as the American exhaled and was in the process of passing the ‘fag’ to Oz. The cigarette went spinning away as he rolled over the parapet to join the two Guardsmen now crouching down at the bottom of the firebay.

Screaming came from over to their left along with desperate shouts of “Medic!” but there were no further detonations.

Arnie and Oz left the trench, crawling rapidly over the muddy earth toward the cries for help whilst Colin yelled for the platoon to stand-to.

All about the area weapons were cocked and shouts echoed the CSMs order to stand-to. It was a time of confusion, when no one knew what the hell was going on but all wanted to. In answer to Colin Probert’s call for a medic to the company CP by field telephone, he immediately received a demand for information on the cause of the explosion, was it an attack, was it a mine or a booby trap? But all he could say in reply was to ‘wait out’.

This was the part of a platoon commander’s job that he liked the least, relying on others to do what his instincts urged him to do, find the problem and report back.

It could have been no more than a minute or so before one of L/Cpl Bethers fatigue men sprinted over to him, but it seemed an age. The young Guardsman was not one of the original battalion and had seen little blood and gore up to that moment. He was breathless as he arrived, his face pale having seen the first most terrible thing to occur in his eighteen years.

“Sir, its Robertson and Aldridge… a grenade went off, we’d just replened them and something must have gone wrong… the RSM and Sarn’t Osgood is workin’ on Robbo, but Aldridge is, is… ..!”

Colin’s stomach sank at the names of the Tyne and Weir romantics, and cutting him short he ordered him into the trench to stand by the field phone. Robertson and Aldridge were members of a group at risk of becoming an endangered species, the original members of the battalion.

Hauling himself out of the trench he grabbed up his rifle and left at a run. He could see a cluster of men bent over watching something, and as he drew near he snarled at them to do as they’d been damn well told and stand to. They scattered away to their own trenches and Colin reached the object of their interest.

The smell of high explosive hung in the air about the fighting position. Torn and ripped sandbags that had lined the parapet of the trenches firebay lay scattered about, the contents bleeding out into the wet ground. The leaves of bushes that had provided the natural cover growing around the position were splashed with blood, and something red and pink, wrapped in shredded camouflage material, was draped over the branch of a tree just behind the trench.

Robertson had been pulled from the trench and laid on the ground beside it so that he could be worked on. L/Cpl Bethers was elevating the remains of what had been an arm, and pressing down hard as he applied a field dressing to the end of the foreshortened limb. The dressing had already reached its limit, it was bright red and blood fell from it at a steady rate.

Oz was knelt down applying a dressing to Robertson’s chest, and it too was soaked with arterial blood. Discarded wound dressing wrappers littered the muddy ground around the young soldier, ground that wore a growing dark stain.

Stepping up to Bethers side, Colin put the heel of his boot in Robertson’s armpit, and bore down on it to compress the artery that had been severed further along, above the soldiers elbow.

It had to have hurt, and Colin looked at his Guardsman intending to speak some words of reassurance, but Robertson’s lower jaw, nose, eyes and most of the soft tissue of his face were missing. What remained showed no visible reaction.

Arnie arrived back at a sprint, having gone for more dressings and encountered the medical officer already enroute. A pair of the battalion medics accompanied the officer with a stretcher and Bergens loaded with the tools of their trade. A medic relieved Colin and Bethers of their task with the pressure point and wound, and the Warrant Officer with nothing else he could do to save his soldier tried to discover what had happened in the first place.

The three remaining Guardsmen of Bethers replenishment party were with their small stock of stores at the next trench, where the trio lay in all round defence. Hand signals summoned one of the Guardsmen to his side, where Colin spoke to the rifleman briefly before sending him to the company commanders CP with a sitrep.

“Okay Corporal, any ideas as to what happened?”

Aged only twenty, L/Cpl Bethers had that jump on maturity that servicemen possess, and which is absent from civilians of the same age group. He already had an opinion as to what had occurred after Aldridge and Robertson had been resupplied.

“Sir, we gave them the same as we gave you. A hundred rounds of ball, fifty linked, one shermouli, one smoke, one frag and its fuse assembly, their water and rat packs.” He nodded towards the body. “Aldridge was like a zombie, all fingers and thumbs, and he dropped the body of the frag when he was trying to screw the fuse in.”

Colin stepped to the edge of the trench and looked down, the sight that met him was not pleasant, but Bethers was still talking.

“I bollocked him and told him to clean it before trying again, and then we moved on to Chedrick and Pitchman’s hole.”

Colin could picture it in his mind’s eye; the body of the grenade landing in the mud at the bottom of the trench, the tired Aldridge squatting down, retrieving it and only doing half a job of ensuring the fuse chamber was cleaned of the dirt. It was dark down there so he wouldn’t have been able to see the muck that had got inside, instead of standing up in the light to check it properly. The assembly would have met resistance as he tried to screw it in, but the tired brain would just command the hands and fingers to apply more pressure.

Fulminate of mercury demands respect and care, and the weary soldier in trying to force the fuse that it contained had lacked those qualities at that particular moment. It had gone off, setting off the explosive in the main body of the grenade.

“Should I have hung around to make sure he did it properly, sir?”

Colin turned and waved to the rest of the fatigue party, calling them over before he answered.

“No Corporal, they were trained soldiers not recruits, it wasn’t your fault, ok?”

Bethers did not look relieved, but nodded in acceptance of his platoon commanders words.

After five minutes hard work in trying to stabilize the horribly wounded young man, the MO finally stopped what he was doing and used a scalpel to cut free the I.D tags hung about Robertson’s neck and handed them to Oz, who left the bloody dressing he had been applying and wiped the gore from the metal discs, before picking up his own SLR and walking back to the trench he shared with Colin. He didn’t look around or speak to anyone; he just left the scene of tragic death, not trusting himself to do anything else for a while.

Arnie Moore watched him go, then turned on his heel and headed for the next platoon location. The only way to curb the carelessness that had started to creep in was not with happy-clappy, beanbag sessions, but by some old fashioned, down to earth discipline. It was the job of the NCOs to lay into their blokes whenever they witnessed it, and that wasn’t happening so Arnie was off to kick some ass, and ensure it started.

Robertson had been taken away by stretcher, and Colin was supervising the removal of Aldridge and the scattered body parts when Ray Tessler, 1 Company’s CSM arrived. All the company commanders were at the COs O Group so he was holding the fort. By rights the company should have had a captain as the 2 i/c, but their last one was now OC of 3 Company and therefore Ray Tessler was mister two-hats.

There had been too many casualties and too few replacements coming in, resulting in the next man in line taking over as the command structure was thinned out by enemy action.

One of the platoons in 4 Company had only two lance corporals remaining of its NCO compliment, and one of those was now the acting platoon commander. He wouldn’t hold the post for very long, only until the CO had reshuffled his remaining officers, warrant officers and senior NCOs to fill the slots. Which was one of the items on the agenda at today’s O Group.

Colin had liked both Robertson and Aldridge, two young men so typical of the Geordies and Yorkshiremen that made up the Coldstream Guards, but he now filed away not so much their memories, as their personalities. If he lived to see another Remembrance Sunday then he would allow them out, the two youngsters who had fantasised over hot tub orgies with lovely pop stars whilst they awaited the war to come to them. They would be allowed out with the others Colin had once soldiered with, shared a pint with, food and laughter, along with the good and bad times that went with army life, both on or off operations. For now though, they were shut away as he and Ray retrieved their weapons, ammunition and equipment, ready for collection by the company quartermaster sergeant to clean and re-issue. Their personal effects would be separated and then passed down the line to RHQ in London, for onward transmission to the young men’s families.

The man who emerged from the doorway of a small hotel in Rue Des Abesses, in the Montmartre area of the French capital, was someone who was an almost unknown outside of the military circles in his own country, and he looked slightly uncomfortable wearing local civilian attire. As he disappeared into the crowds a man and a woman stepped from the same hotel entrance and immediately separated, each taking a different direction.

Over a period of twenty minutes a total of thirteen individuals left the one star hotel, but only one of these was a French national.

It went unnoticed by the local police or SDECE, the French Intelligence Service, and there were no longer any tourists to accidentally snap them as they disappeared as surreptitiously as they had arrived six hours before.

Udi’s day had been fairly crappy on the whole. The workday started with his section head almost giving him a heart attack by summonsing him to his office. Udi had barely arrived and was in the act of removing his topcoat when the tap on the shoulder had come.

Fearing the worst and desperately trying to formulate a speech in his head to explain his failing to report the jamming that night, he had knocked on the office door.

He had almost laughed when he was told the reason for his presence in the office, the head of department’s birthday was approaching and his boss had elected Udi to organise a collection amongst his colleagues, and then to purchase a suitable gift.

His shift had passed by slowly, with the weary Udi clock watching the whole time. There were no surveillance devices for him to plant that day and so he monitored those that were already in place.

When the minute hand reached the hour he had joined the rest of his shift in a restrained scramble for coats and headed home.

The running program was the first thing he checked after reaching his flat and locking the door behind him.

The program for the section of the hallway and stairs had been cleaned up in the preceding hours he had been at work, and it also seemed that he might have sound for this segment also.

Udi removed his coat and tossed it toward an armchair before sitting before the terminal and playing the segment. The first thirty seconds showed him nothing that had not been present before the jamming had begun, and then he heard the dachas door open. Having psyched himself up for the appearance of a man he was surprised when a female appeared.

The surveillance device was sited close to the power cables that served the outside light over the dachas main door, a position where the magnetic field given off by the cable would run interference with any counter surveillance device during a casual sweep. As such he could see only the back of the woman who did not turn as she closed the door, shutting it instead with a backward shove of a hand. That simple act is one associated with familiarity, the act of someone who had been to that dacha on more than a few occasions, but the tired Udi did not pick up on that fact.

He had not noticed the ‘post it’ on the banister rail until the female peeled it off to read it, and Udi stopped the segment to take a still, a vidcap of the moment when it was square on. He paused the program there in order to enlarge and enhance the note, but was disappointed to see it merely read ‘Spare room’.

The innocuous content failed to elude to the purpose of the gathering, and the simple instruction also failed to register on him that this was no stranger to them there parts, this person knew where the room was. But even had Udi cottoned on, what happened next would have taken its place in his brains list of priorities.

The woman climbed the stairs as instructed and opened the first door at the top of the stairs, disappearing inside, the door being closed firmly behind her with an ominous bang.

For several minutes Udi sat motionless before the terminal, and then his shoulders began to shake with laughter tinged by frayed nerves, before turning to self-pitying sobs. There was no evidence yet of a secret meeting, no conspiracy and no covert plot to justify his actions. The data at the centre from that night, data that still bore the man-made interference, would be blamed on him and that would be the end of Udi Timoskova.

Leaving the room for his rumpled bed Udi plucked a half full bottle of vodka from off the floor and on un-screwing its top he let it fall. Taking a long pull on the harsh spirit he curled into a ball, tears coursing down his face and nursing the bottle in arms wrapped defensively about himself, the picture of abject misery.

Oblivious to the moods of its owner the computer set-up in the other room hummed on, slowly stripping away the layers of interference on the remainder of the download.

Harry Chapman shivered as he watched the cold wind stir the surface of the lake. Beyond the expanse of water, Langdale Pikes sat ominously, its heights visible only as a darker mass against the backdrop of the night sky.

Hunching his shoulders he turned his back on a view that matched the gloominess of his mood and gazed up at the three hundred year old Low Wood Hotel, sat close to the shore of Lake Windermere.

There was little traffic on the A591, the road that separated the hotel from the lakeside, just the odd car driving along the north side of the lake toward Ambleside and Coniston, or back into the town.

His hands were thrust deep inside the pockets of his thick coat, and a casual observer would have thought he was muttering to himself.

“All stations this is One, signals check.”

“Two, R Five.”

“Three, R Five.”

“Four, R Five.”

Satisfied that the short-range body sets they all wore were still functioning, he asked the officer eating at a single table within the hotel dining room how things were progressing with their principle and her guest.

“Two this is One, sitrep?”

Using the act of sipping tea to mask the act of speaking, Constable ‘Paddy’ Singh of the Metropolitan Police, Diplomatic Protection Group let a waitress pass his table before replying.

“Ice Queen sent back her soup because it was too hot, and the galloping major is making disparaging remarks to the wine waiter about the quality of the cellar here.”

Harry thought that the atmosphere in the dining room was probably colder than it was out here in the open.

“Bet you a fiver that after all that, the pretentious little prick chooses a bottle that costs less than thirty quid.”

Sergeant Chapman was going to lose his bet though, as Major Manson, Coldstream Guards sent away the waiter to fetch a bottle of 1990 Nuits St. Georges, which with corkage set him back £132 and change.

“Okay, so he knows his wine, and has a few bob.”

“He may have a few sheckles to spare sarge, but he’s describing it as one of the good clarets from the southern slopes of the valley.”

“Yeah, and?” Harry’s wine was usually bought from the local off licence, although he preferred a pint of real ale. “So is it from another slope?”

“Don’t be daft sarge, it’s a Burgundy.”

“Well of course, how remiss of me to have forgotten!” the sarcasm dripped from Harry’s words. “If you can afford that stuff my lad, then I am going to be scrutinising your expense claims from here on in.”

“My old Dad’s the wine buff, not that he can afford that quality though.”

Across the room, Ms Foxten-Billings decided to bring the conversation around to the business at hand.

“A friend of mine on the Telegraph seems to think that you are the source of some rumours concerning certain war crimes, perpetrated by your regiment since the start of hostilities.” The major looked slightly uncomfortable at her words. “Major, let me set your mind at ease. This government is more concerned with violations of a landmine treaty we signed in 1998, and that British soldiers were encouraged to kill prisoners, than we are of a man of conscience telling tales out of school.”

Manson remained silent as he weighed up her words, but it was obvious that had his talking out of turn been the issue here, then someone from the MOD would be dealing with him now, not the Defence Minister.

“What really disturbs us is that an allegedly elite regiment of foot guards has totally ignored its elected governments public statements to the international community, that Britain will never again use landmines… the human rights issues of that other matter, are of course something we are morally bound to investigate, no matter the circumstances.”

“Minister… ” Mason began.

“Call me Danyella, Simon.”

“… Danyella then. Britain only signed a treaty banning anti-personnel mines, not anti-tank mines. I said nothing to the media about mines.”

“It was in the after action reports… the arrogance of the commanding officer practically bragging about his being forced to acquire the weapons from sources outside the norm, was quite inappropriate.”

She took a sip of her wine and gave the waiter returning her soup a tight, perfunctory smile.

“Now tell me Simon, how many mines did your battalion lay, and what type were they?”

“Well, there were at least two hundred anti-tank mines, but as to the type and mark I really couldn’t tell you, Danyella. They were Warsaw Pact era weapons after all, hardly items I could be expected to be familiar with.”

Danyella considered his words before leaning forward intently.

“So how do you know they were anti-tank mines and not anti-personnel, hmm?”

Major Simon Manson was not a great believer in study of the enemy’s arsenal, or even that of newfound friends, for the simple reason that he didn’t see it as being his job. After all, that was the job of his warrant officers and NCOs, wasn’t it?

“I see your point madam; in fact if one were to be quite truthful, then one did have one’s doubts.”

Danyella sat back in her chair with a broad smile on her face. This man was a bore and an insufferable snob, but he was so going to be so easy to manipulate into saying precisely what she required of him.

“Anyway, enough of the Westernitz… ”

“It was the Wesernitz, ma’am.”

Danyella dismissed the error with a casual wave.

“… what happened at Leipzig, Major?”

Major Manson had walked almost five miles before a vehicle had stopped, on the day his services had been dispensed with. To add to his embarrassment the vehicle had been an RMP patrol, and they had kept him standing in the open with a man covering him whilst they discovered why a man wearing a major’s insignia was without a weapon and miles from his unit. Satisfied that he was not in fact a deserter, he was given a ride to a field hospital where he could catch another ride up to brigade headquarters.

He’d had plenty of time walking along a MSR to formulate a reason for being relieved of his post, and should the battalion suffer similar losses as it had at the river, then there would be few around to dispute his claims.

“Feelings were running very high amongst the guardsmen, a lot of the guys hadn’t made it out and rumours were flying around that the enemy had shot our wounded. These were all from unreliable sources ma’am, but it takes little to persuade a ranker that blue is in fact pink.”

“Did you confront any of these, so called witnesses?”

“Indeed I did, but none were credible, not a one was an officer.”

Manson’s unspoken assumption that she would share his contempt of anyone who was not a holder of the Queens Commission was quite wrong; hers extended to the entire military elite, as she thought of them with distaste.

“At a time like that I imagine the officers were busy quelling such gossip?”

“It was that very subject which saw my removal from command of my company. Lt Col Reed felt that the rumours should be encouraged, to increase the men’s aggressive spirit. I of course objected, and found myself relieved of my post.”

“That does seem a rather drastic move on his part?”

“We’ve always had differing styles of leadership, and the man lacks the ability to see the pros and cons of another point of view, so he simply did away with a conflicting opinion.”

“And after that battle Simon, how many prisoners did your battalion send to the rear?”

“Far less than one might expect, and most of those were stretcher cases for the field hospitals.”

Danyella was working the spin in her head as she listened, and formulating a report stating that these wounded soldiers had probably only been spared due to the actions of the medics and stretcher-bearers on the battlefield.

It was just one more piece of evidence that should really have shown the prime minister, when he eventually read it, that he had made a serious error in her appointment. Even he was aware that a battalion provided its own medics, and the stretcher-bearers were the regiment’s musicians in peacetime.

It was also another indication that the new PM was not doing his job by enquiring as to why she was not devoting all of her time to the duties of her office instead of delegating the matter to the proper authority, the Provost Marshal’s office.

Two hours later with the meal completed and further discussion over drinks at a quiet corner table, Danyella Foxten-Billings and Major Manson parted company.

Danyella had arranged for his reassignment to Horse Guards in London, where they would have more access in the days ahead. On return to the secure location near Renwick, she would contact the Director of Public Prosecutions and set the wheels in motion.

During the ninety-minute drive back across the Fells on almost empty roads, DC Singh prattled on about his nice warm surroundings of the evening and the good food he had eaten, rubbing in the fact his colleagues evening had been anything but.

Paddy Singh was a talker, he could talk the hind legs off of donkey and wherever possible he practiced that ability whether the audience bid it or not.

He related the details he had heard about arresting an entire infantry battalion, and how the major’s account had varied to fit the bill according to the views of Foxten-Billings.

Harry Chapman was not greatly interested in the goings-on of his principles, so long as they did not compromise the business of protecting them from harm, however on the return journey Paddy Singh’s account of the couple’s conversation got his attention, especially when he heard which unit had been the subject but he kept his own counsel until Paddy had finished and asked the question.

“Sarge, this battalion they were talking about, did they run away from a fight or something?”

The main worry in Mrs Chapman’s life these days was the safety of her youngest brother, a lance corporal in the 1^st Battalion Coldstream Guards, so he was about as up to date as any of the citizens of the UK as to how that unit was fairing.

“No Paddy, no one’s done any running away, far from it in fact.”

“Well according to the ice queen she has already ordered the second battalions re-activation. Most of the replacements are already going into it instead of going to the front, and this Manson character will be the CO. She said that it would replace the first battalion in the line once the arrests were made.”

Harry made the decision there and then to break his rule of not remarking on his principles business unless ordered to do so.

After delivering the Ice Queen back into the care of the military police providing security at the ASoG, the Special Branch close protection officers returned to a hotel that had become their billet, but Harry didn’t stay long.

The night manager gave him change for a tenner and Harry left the small hotel. Taking one of the cars he drove south, following the River Derwent along Borrowdale until the B5289 swung west and began to climb Fleetwith Pike.

Harry took a left at that point and followed a narrow country lane to the tiny hamlet of Seathwaite. In happier times it was a stopping place for Fell walkers and climbers, but Harry’s only interest was the public phone box there.

There was no one about at that hour and Harry could see no headlights on the road so he entered the kiosk and placed a stack of coins on top of the coin box. He would use almost all of the coins in the call he made to a private house in Surrey.

Commuters exiting from the Bakerloo Line underground station at the Elephant and Castle who headed on foot towards London Bridge made use of the wide pavement there to avoid the pair of vagrants loitering at the junction with Gaunt Street.

The duo had acquired from somewhere a couple of buckets and cloths, and were now not so much providing an unsolicited service to motorists, as a nuisance value for the purpose of extracting beer money.

They waited on the traffic lights at the junction to change to red and then stepped slightly unsteadily up to the driver’s sides of the cars and began washing the windscreens.

They weren’t entirely successful in their endeavours, but they had an average 40 % success rate each time before returning to the footway where half a dozen cans of Special Brew sat, though five of the cans were lying on their sides, clearly empty already.

Most pedestrians and motorists either avoided looking at them or curled a lip in contempt at their antics, especially when the drunker of the pair had collided with his partner and fallen in the road while heading for his next victim. It was pathetic, his antics in scrambling to retrieve the bucket that had rolled under a car, and then he had almost lost an arm when the lights had changed again and the traffic began moving. A bus had crushed the cheap plastic bucket before its owner could reclaim it, and that caused his partner to begin swearing at him. Some drunken pushing and shoving followed, which spelled the dissolution of their commercial partnership, and both vagrants headed off in opposite directions with the odd abusive comment still being exchanged until they were out of earshot of one another.

The vagrant who still had his bucket staggered along Gaunt Street past The Ministry of Sound nightclub and turned the corner into Southwark Bridge Road. The change in surroundings must have had a sobering effect on him, because his back straightened and his coordination improved too, as he sent the bucket in a graceful arc over the street to where it landed in a refuse skip.

As he neared the junction with Borough Road a Black Cab, otherwise known as a Hackney Carriage drew up alongside him and he got in, taking a seat before removing his stained and grubby overcoat.

The cabbie glanced briefly over his shoulder, apparently unconcerned that this passenger may not possess sufficient coin of the realm to pay the fare.

“Where to, guv?”

“New Kent Road, under the railway bridge.”

The cabbie waited for a gap in the traffic before making a U turn and heading back the way he had come.

The vagrant tapped on the glass screen separating him from the cab driver, and without taking his eyes off the road the cabbie reached around and slid open the glass hatch, before passing a Motorola PR and a box of make-up removal swabs over his shoulder.

Removing his matted wig Detective Inspector MacAverney listened in to the radio traffic on the PR for a few moments before speaking.

“Control, permission?”

“Go, guv.”

The D.I gave the description of the man who had stoically refused to make eye contact, or otherwise acknowledge the presence of the derelict slopping soapy water across his line of vision, with a hand obscuring his view through the wing mirror as he’d gripped it for support in leaning over the cars bonnet.

But all those efforts could be for nought

“Any problems?”

“Nah guv, good signal… he’s stopped at red ATS, Borough High Street and Duke Street Hill as we speak, still heading for north of the river.”

“Okay, well we’re going to pick Danny up and head back to ‘the factory’.”

“Rog’… oh yeah, Traffic wants to know if they can have control of the lights in the Causeway back?”

“Yes certainly… and thank them for their help.”

The cab, one of several in the fleet of surveillance vehicles owned by the Serious Crime Group picked up the second’ vagrant’ from where he was waiting around the corner from Newington Causeway, and its ‘cabbie’ avoided the rest of the commuter traffic in the New Kent Road by turning off into Meadow Row, and from there made his way to New Scotland Yard.

The Major Incident Control Room at CO had been taken over for a multiple agency operation dedicated to capturing the enemy cell that had killed Constantine Bedonavich, Scott Tafler and of course, two of their own.

SO-19 was one of the departments involved in the operation, but they were unhappy with the Commissioners great efforts to borrow a troop from the Special Air Service, for the critical job of securing the suspects when that time came. SACEUR had initially refused to release them from Germany, but then the deep strike mission a G Squadron troop had been about to undertake was scrubbed. General Allain had relented, releasing the troop for a period not to exceed 48 hours, the time it would take for another mission in disrupting Red Army supply lines to be put together.

Art Petrucci was a late arrival and an escort delivered him to the incident room where he joined the Commissioner, stood quietly at the back. There were two military officers present in the room amid the policemen and women, and one was stood next to the Commissioner.

“Good morning Art, do you know General Shaw?” The Commissioner clasped Art’s hand briefly and stepped aside in order for the two Americans to exchange greetings.

“Only by reputation.” Shaking the marines hand he asked with genuine curiosity what had brought the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs there.

“London is my last port of call before returning stateside, and I knew young Scott so I dropped in to see if there had been any developments in finding his killers.”

As Head of Station for CIAs London office, Art knew damn well that he should have been informed of Henry Shaw’s itinerary if the United Kingdom had been on it, but he gave away no sign of what he was thinking.

“So are you staying at the Embassy marine barracks, or with the Ambassador at Winfield House?”

“I can’t stand the sanctimonious son of a bitch, and I was going to stay at the barracks tonight but the Commissioner here very kindly offered me the use of a spare room at his home in Surrey. It’s a lot closer to Heathrow and as I’m about travelled-out, I said thanks.”

“A case of, if its Thursday this must be Paris, huh?” Art asked.

Henry laughed.

“Actually I was there yesterday, but that’s pretty much been the story.”

Art laughed along good-naturedly with him, but made a mental note to ask both the chief of station Paris and the SDCE what they had known of his visit there.

The conversation ended there as they listened in on the progress of the target vehicle. The driver of that car was following a route around the capital obvious only to himself, interjected with routine counter surveillance actions such as sudden course changes, reversing his direction of travel, and at roundabouts would at times circle around it several times. It was all being done in order to confuse a tail, or make them reveal themselves in their attempts to maintain contact.

On two occasions whilst halted in traffic their suspect had released his seatbelt and opened the cars sunroof, peering up through it as he tried to see if a helicopter was being used to track him. They didn’t know about that in the incident room though, because none of the surveillance team had been in eyeball contact, or sight of it, since D.I MacAverney and his fellow ‘vagrant’ had placed the electronic tracking device beneath the car.

They were not relying only on the tracker, there were cars, vans and of course solo motorcycles ‘doing the alternative’, or in others words they were travelling along roads that ran parallel to the one the target vehicle was using.

The passengers, the men and women in the cars and vans were known in the trade as ‘Footmen’, and if for some reason the driver abandoned the target vehicle and did not seem as if he would return for it, then these officers would begin a ‘foot follow’ a task that requires much skill and practice, especially if the quarry was as surveillance conscious as this target quite obviously was.

The Commissioner called over a uniformed Chief Superintendent at one point. Only a few words were exchanged before the man left on the task his boss had given him, but Art’s built in radar had twitched.

“What’s his problem?”

The Commissioner smiled.

“Oh, he is just a little put out that I brought the military in to do a task his department wanted. Stokes and Pell were SO-19 officers, so my specialist firearms unit believe they should make the arrests.”

“And you don’t?”

“Let us just say that I would rather not test their professionalism. We want those individuals as much for what they can tell us in intelligence terms, as I do for them to face justice.”

It wasn’t until the driver reached Pall Mall that he saw a marker, a hexagonal shaped sticker about four inches across, its fluorescent green colour in sharp contrast to the red of the post office box it adhered to.

It took a little while for the surveillance team to guess that there target had completed his business in the city, by which time the target vehicle was eastbound on the north circular road.

The units involved in the vehicle follow had nothing particularly challenging to do until the target turned off the north circular toward Essex on the A13 and put his foot down. The controller sent two of the powerful surveillance team motorbikes forwards, to overtake the target and to keep well ahead of him. He kept the remainder back, the closest vehicle being another motorcycle a mile behind the target, but they knew their quarry was more switched on than the average criminal it was their usual brief to shadow, and a change of vehicles somewhere was a distinct possibility. If the controller read the situation correctly he would order callsigns to ‘punch up’, to close the gap between the target and themselves, but if he got it wrong the target could have switched wheels and a ‘total loss’ would have to be declared, as contact with the target was irretrievably lost.

Controlling such an operation could send a person’s stress levels so high they redlined. A small mistake, a callsign sent in the wrong direction or not moved out of the targets path in time could sink an operation that had cost literally millions, so those present in the incident room who did not know Dusty Miller by reputation, had misgivings that a mere plain clothes duty police constable should even be allowed in the room.

Dusty had twenty years’ experience in surveillance work and had he taken up the game of Chess would have been a candidate for grand master. Dusty had the ability not only to think several steps ahead, but the only thing known to ever cause him the slightest element of stress was the occasional aphid infestation of the prize roses he grew in his garden at home.

When the target suddenly turned left onto the B1335 outside the village of Wennington, and then stopped in a lay-by a short distance further on, all heads turned in Dusty’s direction.

The controller sat unconcerned as the minutes ticked by, ignoring the increase in fidgeting by others in the room, until at last the tracker indicated the vehicle was once more on the move, turning around and returning to the A13 where it continued deeper into Essex.

Dusty sacrificed one of his vans by ordering it to overtake the target vehicle and confirm that the vehicle emitting the tracking signal was the same, and that the suspect was still inside it. With a target of this quality Dusty would not risk using the van again anywhere near it, and so the footmen were soon after transferred to other vehicles, and the van returned to London.

“Someone just made a pick-up.” Observed Art.

Counter Intelligence in the UK was the job of the British Secret Service, not the CIA, but he would be very interested to learn whom the SIS eventually caught servicing the dead letterbox near the lay-by.

For a further hour they trailed the car, onto the M25 motorway where it crossed over into Kent, and then to a cul-de-sac off a quiet street in the town of Swanley.

This was the first time on the follow that Dusty ordered the vehicles to punch up, and he then deployed footmen to cover access routes from the dead end street.

The two motorcyclists Dusty had sent ahead of the target kept a discrete eye on the end of the street for the few minutes it took for the two vehicles worth of footmen Dusty selected to arrive and deploy, and so when their suspect appeared the only people he saw were a couple of pedestrians going about their business.

Their suspect was good; there was no doubt about it. Three hours after his encounter with the vagrants he was still alert to possible surveillance as he made his way through the small town on foot. Using shop windows as mirrors he discretely checked his six o’clock position for tails as he traced a circuitous route around the town.

Gemma Daly took over the ‘eyeball’ position as the target turned into Sycamore Drive, and when he turned apparently to see if there was a bus in sight she saw his body telegraph his intention a moment before his sudden movement. It was barely susceptible but she caught it anyway, his right shoulder dropped fractionally before he swivelled around at the waist, looking sharply behind him and taking in all that was in the street before turning back.

He saw Gemma of course, or rather a rather dowdy looking woman across the opposite side of the street and about ten yards back. But she wasn’t looking at him or doing anything to cause suspicion.

Further back along the street, on his side, a man and another female were walking in the same direction as him. They weren’t walking together and everything seemed normal, but he didn’t relax.

The target was level with the Convent of Mercy when he suddenly stopped, and this caused problems for the foot follow.

There was no cover for Gemma and the other footmen that he had in view as he stood there with his back to the convent looking up and down the street. It was a tactic designed to force a tail to lose contact or ‘show out’, because there were no handy shop doorways, no alleyways or opportunities to drop temporarily from sight.

Gemma put out the warning on her body set, her lips barely moving. “Stop, stop, stop.” Those footmen not in sight went into shallow cover, ready to go deep if the target did the reciprocal, retraced his steps. The female officer furthest from the target in Sycamore Drive got lucky, sticking out a hand for a bus, which pulled in for her at a request stop she had just walked past. The male ahead of her had no such options open except to keep walking right on, and gave a very convincing frown as he walked past he target who was staring at him. The male officer was now ‘burnt’, their quarry hadn’t sussed him out but he would be recognised if seen by the target again.

Gemma wasn’t quite as ready to accept defeat, though what she tried is a difficult trick to carry off as any taught on the surveillance courses.

The target paid close attention to passing vehicles as well as pedestrians, but in the minutes he waited he did not recognise any vehicle as one that had driven around the block and past him again.

Across the road from him the dowdy woman had bumped into an old friend, and they were gossiping away as women did in his own country too when they hadn’t seen each other for a time, and he turned toward the town centre again.

Gemma hurriedly said goodbye and promised to stay in touch this time with the local housewife she had never seen before in her life but had nonetheless convinced that she and Gemma had met years before on a holiday in Spain. She breathed “Off, off, off.” Informing everyone the target was again on the move, as she continued the follow.

There are strict rules to be adhered to in the voice procedure of a follow, both vehicular and on foot. When the follow is electronic you ask the controller for permission to speak, but when you don’t have the aid of a tracker then that permission must come from the ‘eyeball’.

No matter who you are, if you are in the eyeball position then that becomes your callsign, ‘eyeball’. When the eyeball is speaking nobody else does, and even when the eyeball is not commentating on the target, you ask eyeballs permission before you speak, and that includes the controller.

Dusty was pleased with how Gemma had maintained contact, but now would be a good time to set up a change.

“Eyeball, permission?”

“Go.”

“Mel’s in perfect cover ahead. You recycle with One Four down the next right.”

“Ok.”

Ahead of the target she saw her colleague appear out of the entrance of St Bartholomew’s Roman Catholic school and without giving a single glance to the approaching target, he negotiated the traffic to gain the far side.

No one expects their tail to be the guy or gal in front of them, because tails are always following behind you, right?

So Mel had a leg up on the creditability scale, and by crossing the road he had allowed the target to overtake and put him in the classic tail position.

The target took advantage of a glass bus shelter for a free look behind him. Despite the graffiti scratched on it by bored individuals with sharp door keys, its reflection told him three people were behind him, but only two were heading the same way. The mousy woman, who was now turning down a side street, and the parent/teacher from the kid’s school.

Out of sight of the target down the side turning Gemma climbed through the side door of a van and began a quick change. None of the vehicles carried changes of clothes, although most had workmen’s coverall’s and maybe a grubby coat, so what took place was a swap of outer clothing and accessories amongst the footmen inside.

As in any walk of life, policemen come in different shapes and sizes, but unlike other departments the dedicated surveillance officers are chosen for their looks as well as intelligence, but not in the way a soap star would be.

The old C.11 Criminal Intelligence Department were the very best at surveillance in any police force anywhere, and they set the standard that is still strived for in other covert police set-ups.

When would-be members of C.11 came calling and they entered the door to the units offices at NSY, some would have noticed a mark on the doorframe. In those pre-equal opportunities days there was a height limit for the police service in London so there was no second mark on the door frame to designate that the caller was below average height, so only those who were shorter than the mark on the door frame went on to the second and subsequent stages of selection.

Gemma was no head turner, and neither were any of her colleagues; they were all of the ‘nothing special’ category in attractiveness. Not too good looking or unattractive to attract attention, the all-round Mr and Ms Average.

With a vehicle full of averaged sized people, a change in wardrobe was not that difficult to achieve as One Four’s avoided passing the target who he made his way toward the large Asda Superstore in the town centre.

As Gemma slid open the side door again she paused, reaching forwards to pluck the cap off the drivers head and after trying it for size she emerged in the stores car park. The dowdy spinster-type was gone, and a middle-England thirty-something Mum sought shallow cover until Dusty called upon her once more.

The target had been taught not to assume anything, go through the drills, and only then, if nothing untoward was apparent, to assume he was temporarily free of observation.

Mel saw the target remove a mobile phone from a pocket and make a call, speaking very briefly indeed before replacing it.

Back at NSY Dusty scribbled down the time and the postcode of the area the call had been in, handing it to an assistant who got busy on the phone.

“With a bit of luck.” The Commissioner said to his guests. “We should learn the targets cellular number and the number of whoever he called, plus wherever that contact is.”

It took ten minutes for the information to become available.

“Ok.” Dusty said, as he looked at the details his assistant had written below Dusty’s own writing. “I think sir, we are looking at a potential third eye in the town centre.”

Henry Shaw was intrigued.

“What does he mean, a third eye?”

“It is easier for a person to spot someone following someone else, so Dusty thinks our man just called a friend to watch who is behind him.”

“Dusty… any clue as to this other guy?”

“Unfortunately yes, the number he called was a landline, not another mobile. He telephoned the shopping centre CCTV control room.”

“How are you going to handle it, isn’t it too risky to go following him in?”

The Commissioner looked over at Dusty.

“Well?”

“We don’t follow him sir, we know where he is going and he has to come out of there. Once inside he will do something, something to cause a reaction from any footmen. It won’t need to be much, just ducking down for a minute would do that, and the third eye will be watching for someone who is looking about just a little too much in order to regain contact.”

A few of the senior officers clearly disagreed, and the more senior voiced his concerns.

“Commissioner?”

“Yes Commander Aires?”

“I disagree with this, uh, Constables assessment. We should flood the area with our footmen, put a dozen inside and that way we will keep contact no matter what he does.”

Rather than automatically support him as he had expected, the Commissioner passed the commander suggestion to Constable Miller.

“Dusty?”

“We would just be giving the target and the third eye more officers to spot, I think it’s a stupid idea sir.”

The Commanders hackles rose.

“Oh really, Constable?”

He was not used to the junior ranks saying anything other than, ‘yes sir’ to his suggestions.

“Well I have decided that the decision should come from above your pay grade… ”

The Commissioner cut him off in mid flow.

“I agree Commander!” however the Commander’s satisfied smile soon disappeared.

“Dusty, any footmen already in the shopping centre, pull them out and run this as you see fit.”

“Yes sir.”

In Swanley, the target reached the end of Sycamore Drive and dodged the traffic in Bartholomew Way to arrive in the shopping centres car park, where he broke into a run, heading for the entrance.

Mel let him go, and carried on walking without so much as a turn of the head along the road to rendezvous with a vehicle parked a little away from the town centre.

Thirty minutes later, their man re-emerged onto the street. He still used shop windows in order to look behind himself but he now walked with an obvious sense of purpose.

In a way the boys and girls of the SCG were disappointed as they watched their man drive out of the railway station car park in another vehicle. The game was nearly over now, they could sense it, and although they no longer had the aid of a tracking device they could see the suspect was relaxed, and no longer a challenge for their skills.

At no time during the following forty minutes did any of the surveillance vehicles follow directly behind the target. There were always at least two genuinely innocent vehicles between the ‘eyeball’, and the target as he wound his way home.

By 3pm that afternoon the Commissioner was satisfied their suspects had been ‘housed’, and returned to his office to make a telephone call to the Chief Constable of Surrey.

Udi had been late for work and the dressing down he had received from his shift supervisor had jarred his hung over state.

Unshaven and having slept in the same clothes he had worn the previous day, Udi had hardly presented a picture of the reliable worker.

Udi had weathered the storm and made the right noises about it being a one off lapse that would never be repeated. Apparently satisfied that Udi had gotten the message the supervisor had handed across a work order.

Udi had been scheduled to monitor the ongoing surveillance at the centre for the next two days, so he was surprised.

“Zinayev is handling that, I’m not having you looking like a tramp and stinking like a distillery whilst the auditors are here.”

Fortunately there was little enough blood in Udi’s features that the rest draining away was not noticeable.

“The auditors are coming today?”

“They are here already; now get a move on before someone sees you.”

After all the worry over the impending audit, Udi felt a calm resignation replace the shock of the news that it had at last arrived.

Udi had travelled to Noginsk, 100 kilometres from Moscow, and removed surveillance devices from the home of yet another senior officer to have displeased the premier.

No stealth or guile had been required to enter the house; it had been emptied of its occupants by the arrest team that had come with the dawn for the late Admiral Petorim’s wife and children. Udi was not to know that the entire family had been executed within hours, but he shivered and looked over his shoulder several times as he worked, so certain had he been that the eyes of the dead were upon him.

It took only an hour to complete his task, and then he had returned to Moscow, to his apartment where he had half expected to find internal security awaiting him, but the flat had held no unwanted visitors.

He had forgotten to switch off his computer the previous night, and had left for work so hurriedly that morning that it had continued to chalk up an increasing debt on the meter. However, the thought of the state power company attempting to extract payment from his corpse now gave him some amusement.

The atmosphere in the house at Noginsk had not prevented him from raiding the well-stocked larder there, filling one of the late families suitcases with cheeses, hams and other delicacies, which he now gorged himself on before approaching the keyboard and monitor.

If he was going to be shot for spying on those in power, he may as well get his money’s worth. According to his monitor, the program had completed its task of wiping the download free of interference, so he opened two windows on his monitor’s screen, allowing him a view of the hallway and upstairs room.

It was apparently quite warm in the occupied room, Torneski had removed her greatcoat and unbuttoned her tunic, and sweat speckled the brows of the young officers.

All four occupants heard the main door open, and Torneski gave a nod to the men who removed their uniform tunics and quietly took up position behind the door, so that only the KGB chief would be in view once the girl opened the door to the room.

So, thought Udi, the girl thought she was there for a meeting with the KGB chief but was about to get herself beaten or killed.

Udi expected the girl to jump when the door was slammed closed behind her, but her languid stride never faltered. In the centre of the room she halted, with feet set apart, hands on her hips and her weight resting over on one leg, where she turned at the waist to speak to the three officers, and he got to look at the face of a girl who was heart-stoppingly lovely. From the top of her head to the tips of her toes, via the firm breasts and drum flat belly of course, she was pretty damn perfect as far as Udi was concerned.

All three looked from the girl to the woman, for some kind of instruction, but her face projected anger without a muscle twitching, and Udi realised that she had been out manoeuvred by this girl.

Turning back to Torneski the girl smiled.

“So Elena, what shall we talk about today?”

If looks could kill, this girl would have died on the spot from Torneski’s expression as she sprang to her feet, and for a moment Udi thought she was going to strike the girl, but she snarled at the men instead.

“Search her.”

This was not the cowering girl they had expected, she was not supposed to have walked boldly in, but two of the young officers held her arms by the biceps as she obediently allowed the third to search her.

He came to the old style the walkman last and after listening for a moment to the sensual tones of Lauren Wood singing Fallen, he was about to drop it with the boots, but then tossed it onto the soft surface of the nearby mattress, after pressing the stop key.

That act of thoughtfulness enraged Elena Torneski, who lashed out with a kick at the man before ordering all three outside.

There was definitely history there, Udi thought, and quite plainly some of it was bad, but what, he wondered would happen between Torneski and the girl?

As the last officer, a major of KGB Spetznaz forces, pulled the door closed behind him Svetlana’s whole persona altered, gone was the saucy wiggle as she strode past the KGB chief and plucked the greatcoat off the back of the chair, draping it across her own shoulders, to be held closed with her fingers.

“Did you agree to this meeting just to work off a grudge?”

Torneski did not reply, but began buttoning up her tunic instead.

“The American’s have offered you twenty million dollars for the premier’s location, but it is both negotiable as well as being a limited offer.”

It was Torneski’s turn to laugh.

“Ha, and how long do you think they will prevail… we have almost broken NATO in Germany, and the Chinese are poised to begin their invasion of Australia any day now.”

Udi’s finger stabbed the pause key and he gawped at the monitor for a long moment before rewinding and listening to the exchange once more before pausing once more.

So there was a conspiracy, or at least a covert contact between the Americans and the head of the KGB, and there was only one reason why the Americans should want to know the premiers whereabouts, in order to kill or capture him, although assassination was by far the most likely option.

Taking a pen and paper he started the recording again, now ready to write down any names that could be mentioned in the next few minutes.

“And how long can you prevail Elena?” Svetlana looked the older woman in the eyes. “How long before the premier decides you have failed him, how long before he orders your death?”

Denied the revenge she had long promised herself, Torneski had to work hard at keeping a clear head and it was a few moments before she responded.

“The money is not enough, I want forty million and I want it in gold.”

“For twice the money, they will expect more from you.” The girl explained.

“They could be merely clearing the way for someone with like ambitions to take over the premiership, so they would want some means of ensuring that eventuality didn’t come to pass too.”

Torneski was silent as she considered.

Svetlana retrieved her Walkman, clipping it make into place before closing the greatcoat again and probing further. “Are there any politburo members who have such ambitions?”

The premier’s great plan had been many years in the making, and potential rivals who could thwart, or even hijack it, were definitely not amongst its designs. There was not a single one left with the balls to even privately consider such a possibility.

Udi put himself in the KGB chiefs’ shoes and being one of life’s cynics, to his mind if she answered truthfully then there was nothing to stop the Americans from striking at the premier whilst she was in the same location, and therefore saving themselves twenty million in gold.

“Perhaps, yes there are two, maybe three who could take over the reins if the premier were to be removed.”

“And?”

“And yes, I can neutralise them.”

Udi watched and listened as the business of high treason was concluded with the exchange of information. From the girl came the bank details of where the money could be found. The Swiss bank in question would verify that the money existed, but the access codes would not be forthcoming until after the deed was done.

It briefly passed through Udi’s mind as he recorded the details on the writing pad that he could possibly find himself in a position to become very, very rich indeed. However in reality he knew he would exchange this disc for his life, and be grateful for that.

The girl called Svetlana repeated the longitudes and latitudes of three secure locations, the premiers present hiding place and two alternates, along with the date he was expected to relocate and the signal which would identify the location.

She wrote nothing down and apparently her memory was sufficient for the task. A handy skill for a spy, but Udi wasn’t in that league and had to play the segment back twice before he got it all.

On the monitor Torneski was stood silently for a moment of thought, before breaking that silence.

“Tell me Svetlana, are you and Major Bedonavich lovers?”

“It always burned you to think of me with a man didn’t it Elena, and I never did really understood why you made a point of accompanying the examiners on my test nights, unless it was to feed that broad streak of sado-masochism?”

Elena returned a cold smile.

“I’m sure the future will bring you all the happiness you deserve with him, my dear.”

The girl paused for a second, her brow furrowing as she studied Torneski, and then departed

Back in the room upstairs, Torneski switched off the heating and lights and listened to the girl leave. She laughed a cruel little laugh as if she had played a malicious joke that could not fail to work, as she descended the stairs and switched out the lights in the hall before then departing.

According to the on-screen timer, Udi knew that it was at this point that the interference had suddenly ended, and he was no wiser as to the source. He wasn’t to know that at that point Svetlana had depressed the same stop key on the Walkman as the officer had, but she had kept it held down for several seconds.

Udi stopped the program and removed the disc, placing it in its clear plastic case and tore off the sheet of paper from the pad, folding it and placing it inside the case also. His problem now was one of sounding plausible when he handed over the disk, because he certainly couldn’t mention an illegal bottle of beer had played a large part in his original actions. He had to come up with a story about suspecting the loyalties of his immediate colleagues and line managers. He had no friends at the centre and felt only a momentary twinge of conscience at the thought of casting aspersions on their integrity, and the longer he stared at the monitor the more credible that line seemed to him.

Pulling on his topcoat and slipping the disk in its case inside a pocket on the jacket beneath, Udi decided he would blame paranoia on his actions when he presented the disk to his department chief, and the time to do that was right now.

He would get a cab to the suburb where the man lived, and hope that he didn’t see the audit as the reason for Udi’s late revelation. He juggled the cursor to the top left of his screen and left clicked his mouse, ordering the system to begin shutting down, and headed for the door realising that unless he got a promotion for bringing the information forward, the next month was going to be very frugal once the electricity bill was paid.

Down in the street below his apartment, two men emerged from the back of a van. The flickering light of a monitor screen illuminated the interior, and this blue tinged light gave the men’s features a cruel, deathly aspect as they reached back inside the vehicle for a holdall and a large heavy rucksack.

As Udi’s system finished powering down, the vans screen no longer mirrored everything that Udi had been watching. The vans occupants had tuned in to the radiation emitted by the monitor in Udi’s apartment, and in this way had avoided the danger of detection had they used a surveillance device or line tap.

Udi opened his apartment door and found a man stood immediately in front of it, his brain registered recognition of the face before him even as the blow landed, crushing his larynx and sending him sprawling backwards into the room. His attacker caught him before he could fall, laying him on the worn sofa and quickly, though quietly pushing the door to.

As he fought against the threatening blackness, Udi cursed himself for not having considered that someone on the auditing team would have informed the head of their organisation that her home was bugged.

Udi Timoskova was still alive when his attackers colleagues from the van arrived silently inside the apartment moments later, and through his agony he recognised them also as being with Elena Torneski that night in the dacha.

After putting out the blaze that had gutted an apartment in a Moscow suburb, its watch commander wrote up his report concluding that a faulty component overheating inside the owner’s computer had caused the fire. Neighbours had already told him that they had heard the hum of the machine day and night in the past few days, whenever they had past his door, which concurred with his long years of experience which pinpointed the charred and buckled base unit as clearly being the seat of the fire.

The apartments occupant had apparently been asleep on a sofa when the fire had broken out. A heat cracked, and smoke charred vodka bottle on the floor beside the body meant that he had probably been oblivious to the danger, and would have expired from the smoke before the flames had reached him.

Oblivious to moves behind the scenes back home, the Hussars, Gunners, Sappers, Paratroopers and Guardsmen were still preparing for their next fight.

“How’s it going?”

CSM Probert stopped swinging the pickaxe and leant on it, getting his breath. The inquisitor was Oz; kneeling in the mud beside a hull down position for an MBT being finished off by a half dozen men with entrenching tools.

“I’d say it was going down the pan fast, if it’s got to the point where a Company Sarn’t Major is navvying away, and a mere sergeant isn’t!”

Oz tapped the tops of the ammunition boxes he had brought up the hill.

“I’ve got some of the lads bringing more up.” He nodded toward an SF kit, the tripod in its webbing bag that sat a short distance away.

“You be careful with yer rates of fire Oz, a GPMG in the SF role goes through rounds like Guinness and curry go through a white man… be a shame if after the first hour the most you had to reply with was harsh language.”

They both heard someone calling the CSMs name and Colin climbed from the hole, using the pick like a climber’s ice axe, to see who it was. Struggling uphill through the mud was one of the battalion clerks, fulfilling his other role as COs runner.

“Oye, Radar… up here!” The TV series ‘Mash’ had stuck all clerical staff with that nickname, even the dyslexic ones.

The young man panted his way up to them.

“Sir… warning order for you, O Group in… ” he looked at his watch. “… in fifteen at the company CP, platoon sized ambush patrol, you can borrow three men from 2 and 3 Platoons, and no move before twenty hundred hours.”

The CSM looked at his own wristwatch.

“1530… cutting it a bit fine?”

Dropping the pick he retrieved his weapon and webbing from where he left them, within arm’s reach of where he’d been digging.

“Sarn’t, can you do the honours and pick twenty four good ones please, make sure we don’t get palmed off with lame ducks and dead wood from 2 and 3?”

Oz nodded and turned, and called out the name of his first choice, the man who would also warn the rest.

“Robertso… ” but stopped before completing the name, embarrassed and momentarily at a loss. Confusion ran across his features for a second or two and then he seemed to mentally shake himself. Colin was silent as he watched his friend, seeing the first visible sign of a stress fracture appear. The runner had a bemused look on his face, and was about to correct Oz when he saw the Company Sergeant Major giving him a steely look.

“Haven’t you got some typing or something to be doing?” He snapped.

The clerk nodded and headed back toward the CP, pissed off at the CSMs comment. If senior NCOs couldn’t remember who was still alive and who was dead, then it was not his fault, so why take it out on him?

Colin made the decision then and there that Oz would not be coming along tonight, he couldn’t give him two weeks R&R but he could let him get his head down for one night.

On his way to the CP Colin passed the gun group on their way up, weighed down with Claymore mines and grenades. He paused for a moment.

“I made a start on the gun pit before moving on to the tankies holes.” He pointed uphill in the direction of the gun pit. “Once you get past the mud the grounds still frozen, but there’s only a foot or so still left to do… then crack on with the shelter and ammo bays, ok?” Once they had acknowledged him he carried on down the reverse slope at a jog.

The company commander greeted him with a tired nod of the head, and pointed to a spot away from the activity around the CP. They tramped across the mud to a fallen tree trunk where Colin sat before removing his notebook and map, and then heard about a soviet recce patrol that had found its way into the rear area, and what they were now going to do about it.

It was growing dark as Major Venables arrived in the location, crawling along at 5mph with a broken down Chieftain in tow. He let the two crews and REME fitters manoeuvre the older tank into its fighting position and wandered over to where some of the infantry were rehearsing for something. He had to cast his mind back to his Sandhurst days to work out what they were preparing for, and then identified the cut offs, rear protection and killer groups.

The patrol was going through the withdrawal phase where haste counted for more than stealth, where they would have just have woken up all the countryside within earshot. As they splashed through the mud he shivered and turned back to his vehicle, that dry thing with bullet proof sides and a heater, which could get him out of trouble at 40mph. Thank God he’d had the sense not to join a military formation that walked everywhere, even when it was raining.

CSM Probert was happy with the way his men had performed in the night rehearsal, as he checked the time and saw they were ahead of schedule so he gave them ten minutes to have a smoke and relax.

Somewhere to their rear a soviet airborne unit was probably doing the same thing, before jumping off and attacking the logistic support elements of the ad hoc NATO division.

It had become clear that a large number of the soviet paratroopers had escaped destruction at Braunschweig, because on reoccupying the town there had been a distinct absence of bodies in the fighting positions. Airborne forces have an annoying tendency, in the opinion of their more conventional opponent’s commanders, of not obligingly remaining still whilst the killer blow is being landed.

An OP had spotted a recce patrol from the Russian airborne within sight of a mobile vehicle workshop, and those same enemies must also have seen one of the main ammunition storage areas that lay close by.

Somehow the soviets had infiltrated unseen past the rear protection, but rather than call in fire, which some may survive, the route they’d taken had been identified and a patrol tasking was generated. Subsequently the orders had arrived at Pat Reed’s CP and CSM Probert now had the task of laying an ambush for the enemy when they returned to do harm to the NATO support units they had found.

Captain Hong frowned at the rain that sheeted across the bridge screen. The storms that had delayed the invasion force for several days were not yet done with them as they left the relatively safer waters north of the island of Java.

This was there second attempt at entering the Indian Ocean; the first had been through the Lombok Strait to the east. They had lost one of the converted container ships when a super typhoon struck in mid passage, so ferocious had been the winds that the large vessel had been driven onto rocks where she broke her back and went down with all hands.

Vice Admiral Putchev had endured the pressure being exerted from Beijing until the meteorological reports indicated an end was in sight, but had only then relented after making both governments agree to a change in the plan.

Instead of steaming a few hundred miles off the west coast of Australia, a plan he always had doubts about, the invasion fleet would hook around deep into the expanses of the Indian ocean before approaching the landing sites.

Having ridden out some of the most powerful storms on record

The Russian was not on the bridge at the moment, but touring the areas of the vessel a senior officer of the People’s Republic would not consider venturing to, and speaking to the hands working in small departments that were as vital to the running of the vessel as the more high profile and technical ones.

Hong had tried to explain to Putchev that the reason officers below his rank existed, was to perform such tasks. Putchev had replied by smiling at him as a teacher would a gifted student who hadn’t quite got the answer, but was nonetheless confident the student would find his own way to it eventually.

With some many vessels squeezing their way through the straits in distinctly increment weather the captain remained close to the bridge radar repeater.

Hong was still peering intently at it when the radar swept over the edge of a landmass in mid channel.

“That is Krakatoa, or at least part of what is left of it.”

So intent was he on the repeater that Captain Hong had not heard the Russian admiral enter the bridge. He looked up to see Putchev peering out through the starboard screen, although there was no possibility he could have been able to glimpse the island in the present poor visibility.

“Did you know it was once supposed to be a tropical paradise?” The Russian looked at him over his shoulder, his eyebrows raised as if expecting an answer, but none came so he continued on with the history lesson.

“It was once a single island, not the four uninhabited chunks you see on the charts… but by all accounts it was eighteen square miles of heaven on earth.” His voice sounded wistful as he spoke, and despite their current situation Hong’s curiosity was aroused. “So what happened to it?” The schools Hong attended had not included natural history on the syllabus, the teachings of the man whom this vessel was named after were thought to have far more influence on the planet than mother nature.

“One of the largest volcanic events in recorded history blew up two thirds of the island.” Putchev replied. “A tidal wave fifty feet high as a result, killed tens of thousands and the explosion could be heard three thousand miles away.”

Hong looked back at the repeater, trying to fathom the forces that could have accomplished such destruction.

“The Americans even made a movie about it.”

The last item of information quite obviously did not have much of an impact on the Chinese officer, and Hong just smiled back politely.

Putchev tried again.

“Maximilian Schell and Brian Keith were in it.” But Hongs smile remained the same.

The admiral shrugged, oh well. “Whoever wrote its title couldn’t read a map and compass though.”

Hong looked back at the Russian.

“Why?”

“It was called ‘ Krakatoa, East of Java.”

It took several hours for the fleet to slip through the channel to the west of the island of Java, past the four shattered fragments that remained of Krakatoa and then take up a heading of 225’.

The captain and crew of Her Majesties Australian submarine Hooper, could have been forgiven for thinking that the typhoon which had announced the season of storms had begun early, was still blowing up top if it had not been for the daily met reports. Six of the weather fronts had crossed their area of operations one after the other.

Whenever they had come up to snorkel or raise the communications mast they had felt the effects of the angry seas that had been absent at greater depth. It was not on the scale a surface vessel would have experienced, but the Hooper’s helmsmen earned their rations each time.

Returning now to three hundred feet her captain awaited a rating to bring to him the decoded signal they had just collected.

Clearing datum was the first piece of business they had to deal with, seeing as how they had stuck a hand up where an alert enemy could have seen it, albeit a very small arm in a very vast ocean.

“Sonar?”

There was a few moments delay before his query was answered. The retarded effectiveness of their sonar suite was not so much a chink in their effectiveness as a weapon, more of a gaping hole.

“Control room, sonar… only traffic we have is that same tanker out of Madagascar?” The vessel had been the only shipping they had heard in over a week. “It’s still ten miles northeast and heading for the Sunda.”

Now there’s a crew who will kiss the soil of Gods good earth when they make port, the captain thought. Doubtless they were being paid premium rates with a bonus at the end, for carrying a highly volatile cargo of gasoline and diesel fuel, but it was not a job he would have applied for.

Aside from the threat from aircraft and surface ships which could choose not to see its neutral Argentine flag and registry, any one of the storms it had endured could have, and most probably almost did, send it to the bottom. Certainly the ships radio and radar had been taken out, because they had never once picked any emissions on their ESM mast.

The captain did not have the watch and when the decoded traffic was handed to him he carried it to his cabin to read in private, but a knock changed that.

“G’day boss, they say how long before Borroloola relieves us on station?”

“Come in, Number One.” The captain heeled closed the draw he had been resting his feet on and sat upright on the edge of his bunk, before getting his legs out of the way so his First Lieutenant could squeeze past and comply.

“So when can we go home and get fixed?”

“Borroloola is still in port.” The captain told him. “She will not be leaving for another three days.”

“She’s still in port… bloody hell skipper… they do know that our sonarmen are reduced to sticking a drinking glass to their ear and holding it against the side of the hull to listen?”

The captain shrugged, because there was no point in doing anything else.

“They don’t think the PLAN are coming through here, and because they don’t think the PLAN are coming this way, we will be being relieved early, but we aren’t a priority.”

The First Lieutenant sighed.

“So did they get a satellite to stay up long enough to see where they are?”

“The last one lived all of an hour before it got killed, so I am guessing the answer to your question is no.”

His second in command was looking straight ahead and did not respond.

“Number One?”

The captain could see his subordinates eyes weren’t focussed on the bulkhead he was otherwise staring intently at, obviously lost in his thoughts.

“You go to work each day while I stay home and keep house. When you come home you just read the paper… it’s like we just don’t talk anymore.” The First Lieutenant remained fixed on whatever was biting him, and oblivious to what his captain had just said.

“Where did the magic go?” the captain asked himself aloud with a theatrical sigh.

The First Lieutenant turned his head suddenly; his expression bemused

“Pardon?”

The captain handed across the signals.

“There isn’t anything in here that indicates fresh intel on the carriers location. The typhoon should be passed in the next twelve hours, so at least no one’s knocking down the weather satellites, yet.”

There was nothing else to be said on the subject, so a change in pace beckoned

“The troops are holding up good, sir?”

“They are that… I just wish this damn tub would follow their example.”

“I think we will have a couple of days slack once we get back to Perth, would a party be in order sir?”

“Number One, despite our encountering nothing more threatening than the weather on this cruise, I think that a record breaking beach party is definitely called… … … ” The speaker for the ships PA system crackled, interrupting him.

“TorpedoTorpedoTorpedo… action stations torpedo… ..!”

Feet thundered along passageways as the crew responded. The captain’s cabin was next to the sonar shop and both officers were there before the sentence was completed.

“… Range six thousand metres, bearing zero four five… I have one… now two torpedoes in the water!”

“What heading are they?” The First Lieutenant demanded, frustrated that the information was being processed too slowly. It wasn’t the fault of the sonarman, he knew this.

“Standby sir… heading zero four four, someone just shot at the tanker, sir!”

“Can you hear the shooter?”

“No sir.”

“It has to be another submarine skipper, nothing sane will be flying in this weather.” The First Lieutenant went on. “In other words, something got to within six kilometres of us and we didn’t hear him until he fired.” It was a statement rather than a question, but he got a response anyway.

“You’re a real ‘glass half empty feller’ number one. What I would have said was, would they be firing on an unarmed tanker if they knew we were close enough to spit at?”

To the north of them the tankers look-outs never even saw it coming, and the first weapon detonated against the heavily laden vessel amidships, igniting the sixty thousand tonnes of gasoline and twenty tonnes of diesel in a massive explosion that was clearly visible over the horizon on the Mao’s bridge.

The near total darkness of before was now broken by a glow, preceded by a rolling ball of fire that climbed several thousand feet into the clouds before dissipating but the glow from the sea remained, reflecting off the cloud base.

Captain Hong noted that their present course took them on a line uncomfortably close to the fiery gravesite.

“Admiral, may I suggest a change of course by three points to port?”

Putchev shook his head.

“No Captain that will not be necessary, the winds are westerly at this time of year, I do not anticipate them changing.” His thoughts had been with the crew of their latest victim and his voice carried the regret he felt.

“By the time we come up to it the flames will be extending well to our starboard.”

Captain Hong heard the tone of his commander’s voice, and although he did not share the Russian’s feelings, he did understand know him well enough now to know what it meant.

“Sir, they could have announced our presence to the enemy, and they were transporting fuel that would be running Indonesian tank and aircraft engines later.”

“They were sailormen just as you and I are. They were non-combatants with families, and we are not at war with Indonesia captain, nor Argentina either.”

“Not yet Admiral but we will be, and remember that intelligence reports Indonesian forces in Australia.”

As the carriers Mao and Admiral Kuznetsov headed south, so too did the Australian submarine Hooper as she cleared datum at a mere three knots.

Her captains intention was to put distance between his vessel and the last known position of the enemy submarine that had torpedoed the tanker before reporting on events, but two hours later even their sonar could hear the sound of surface vessels heading their way.

The arraignment of vessels heading south, and their types took shape slowly on HMAS Hooper’s plot. Her captain had his hands thrust deep inside his pants pockets studying it, the picture of an invasion fleet that had only one logical destination, and included some dream targets for a submariner.

The First Lieutenant was practically salivating as the contacts were updated with their type, and in some cases even the name of the vessel.

They had the two carriers signatures in their database, as did every allied vessel, courtesy of HMS Hood, and whilst the captain was considering all possible courses of action, the junior officer was working out an attack on the capital ships in his head.

“Okay then.” The captain broke the silence at last. “I want firing solutions on all identified warships, with ASW hulls given priority.”

“We’re attacking then, sir?”

“Not today we’re not, Number One.” Turning to address everyone in the control room, the captain gave his orders. “Apart from a few patrol vessels the rest of the navy is a God awful long way away, and we are the only vessel to have sighted the enemy.” He allowed that to sink in before carrying on. “I intend to let the bastards pass us by before calling this in, and then we will shadow the enemy, reporting as we go.”

All eyes were on him and he knew he commanded their trust, but those faces, from the youngest Rating to the oldest Petty Officer present were a reminder that he held their lives in his hand.

“We are at something of a disadvantage because they can hear better than we can, so I want a contact report prepared and uploaded into an ECB, ready for instant release should we come under attack, plus I want a second ECB readied on a one hour delay.” That second Expendable Communications Buoy would be released once the fleet had passed them by, but would remain at its release depth for sixty minutes before rising to the surface and broadcasting its data in a burst transmission to the nearest communications satellite. Should its transmission be detected, the Hooper would be well clear of the area by that time.

The captain didn’t add that once the weather cleared they would have the enemy fleets ASW aircraft to contend with also, and their survival relied upon all the ships systems being on top line, which they weren’t. The smart ones had already worked that one out for themselves, but none voiced the fact that HMAS Hooper’s days were most probably numbered at best in single figures.

CSM Probert had brought his men in by groups from the Final RV, placing them into a formation that was triangular in shape, with gun groups at each tip.

The size of the position was dictated by the ground and its available cover, which in this instance gave them a perimeter roughly seventy-five metres long on each side.

They were inside a mixed forest, tall pine trees in managed blocks were a firebreak away from older deciduous and commercially unviable species of conifers that had existed here long before human exploitation had arrived. The ambush site was within a block of the tall pines with forty or so metres of recently deforested ground separating them from the logging track the enemy recce patrol had used. Beyond that track, up a low bank of sand and shingle was an area occupied by shorter elm, birch and scrub oak, with gorse in clumps stretching away to the next plantation block.

Eight of the riflemen formed the flanking sides, and the bulk were positioned along the triangles base, in a line that ran parallel to the track. The centre of that line was the ‘killer group’, with two additional gimpies on loan from the other two platoons for the duration of the ambush, and the gun groups at the flanking corners of the base were his early warning/cut off groups. It was a formation that provided flank security and a strong rear protection from counter attack.

As with any night operation, solid command and control was essential, and Colin had reorganised the platoon into six groups, killer, left cut off, right cut off, left flank, right flank and rear protection. He only had four junior NCOs so his left flank was commanded by a buckshee Guardsman with a good head on his shoulders.

Each of these sub unit commanders had a PRC 349 on the platoon net, but all signals would be via communications cord, and Colin would decide when radio silence was to be broken.

The centre of the triangle was empty of men, holding only their bergens in a long line awaiting retrieval by the owners; an event which would not take place should the patrol need to make a fighting withdrawal. That eventuality would occur if they found they had bitten off far more than they could chew, such as bumping the point section of a larger element, rather than another fighting patrol of inferior size.

Such was the state of stores within the NATO forces that batteries for the night viewing aids were in chronically short supply, and there were only a half dozen with the patrol, all of which were switched off to conserve their power supply until needed. It was back to basics time, where the human ear and the Mk 1 eyeball were the only senses the soldiers had.

The rain had begun to fall as a fine drizzle during the placing of Claymore mines and manually operated flares outside the perimeter of the position, and with it a strong breeze brought the chill from the still icy north back to the hills and woods of this part of Germany.

Without having to employ a second flare stake and its tripwire, it took a fraction of the time to set up the flare pots to provide illumination on demand, by the simple means of a length of communications cord clamped to the pots base and running back to the ambushers position where a simple tug on the cord would set off the pot.

The Claymores were a different matter and had to be sited with care in order to maximise the effects, and Colin strayed from recommended methods described in the manuals in order to achieve that aim in one or two instances.

Ignoring the idiots guide printed on the inside of the bandoleer, which he knew by heart anyway, Colin and the commanders of each group had gone forward to site the weapons.

He sited his mines starting with the furthest and working in, so he picked his way cautiously along the track he hoped the enemy would appear from, alert for movement until he found what he was seeking.

Colin had personally tested each clicker and coil of cable after drawing the weapons from the Q Bloke, but he wasn’t minded to tempt the laws of Murphy.

Leaving the mine for the moment he removed the cable and M40 test set from the bandoleer and a clicker from a smock pocket. The dust cover from the clicker’s connector was placed between his lips for safe keeping along with the test set’s female connector cover. Plugging the test set into the clicker he moved the safety bail to the Fire position and unzipped his smock, placing them inside the folds and squeezed the clicker, receiving a flash of light from the test set that only he could see. His next act was to remove to cables protective shorting plug and insert the ends into the test set, the other loose ends went into the clicker and the test set went back into his smock where he sent another electrical pulse from the clicker to ensure the cable was still viable.

Disconnecting the clicker and test set he took the small covers back from between his lips and replaced them along with the shorting plug.

Replacing the safety on the clicker he tucked it back into his smock pocket and removed the Claymore and placed it against the base of a tree and adjusted the angle slightly before pressing down firmly, sinking its legs into the soft ground.

A protruding tree root served as anchor for the cable and a figure of eight knot ensure the cable ends couldn’t be accidentally pulled from the mines detonator well.

The shipping plug primer adapter secured the blasting caps in their wells after he had removed them from the bandoleer and carefully inserted them, which left him the quick task of camming the mine up before unreeling the cable back through the trees at an angle to the track.

Six more mines later and Colin had been reasonably happy with their ability to both kill however came along the track, and get themselves out of trouble if his plans went to total rat shit.

Brecon does not teach optimism, it enforces the maxim that no plan survives first contact with the enemy, and that if you prepare for the worst then anything less will be a piece of piss, in short, pessimism counts.

Sixteen of the 3.5 lb weapons were placed about the location but the CQMS had only been able to provide three ‘Clickers’, M57 firing devices, the hand generator that sends a double three volt pulse along the command wire to the mines. Colin had three clickers of his own that he had ‘acquired’ over the years, and a further four he had borrowed from other individuals in the unit. The commanders on either flank and the gun group Commander on rear protection each had three Claymores to control and Colin was confident that they could manage that number with one clicker each, he on the other hand had seven mines and had a firing device attached to each command wire. Part of Colin’s earlier preparation back in the company location had been to ensure that he knew which clicker was which in the dark, and this he accomplished by waterproofing grains of rice from unused boil in the bag rations. Having dripped candle wax over the grains he held them in place on the sides of the clickers with masking tape, so he could tell by the number of lumps under the tape which clicker was which in the pitched dark by touch alone. If all went well then the patrol would retrieve the unused mines just prior to withdrawal.

At 0023hrs, with the Claymores in place and the firing circuits tested, Colin had reported back to Company HQ with a brief transmission, a codeword informing them his callsign had gone firm and were ready for business.

Over the following two hours the breeze became a wild thing and the drizzle a downpour that the men had to ignore and endure, as the cold earth sapped the heat from their un-insulated bodies.

Colin had strained to see or hear movement on the track in case the enemy had passed the cut-off groups unnoticed in the poor visibility and with the wind and rain drowning out the sound. He could just about make out the sand and shingle bank on the far side of the track, and he never took his eyes off it.

There was little chance of the tired soldiers falling asleep in that environment, but having made their lives thoroughly miserable the weather then relented, tailing off gradually but leaving the patrol cold and soaked.

With the passing of the storm Colin could hear individual drops of rain water falling from the branches of the trees, such is that clarity which follows mother nature’s little tantrums, but he had a nagging worry that gunfire would announce that the enemy fighting patrol had got past them during the storm.

Acutely aware of how sound carries in a wet environment he countered the involuntary trembling of his cold limbs by slowly clenching and unclenching his toes and buttocks, which encouraged some blood to flow to his extremities. Turning his head with deliberate slowness he listened for any out of place sounds coming from the track, and resisted the urge to switch on his night scope with its much-depleted battery.

Colin didn’t hear them but the right hand cut-off group did, and he felt the steady tugs on their communications cord signalling the enemy’s arrival.

Extending the fingers of his left hand he traced the tape he had stuck to the side of the clicker closest to hand, feeling the single protrusion in the otherwise flat surface that confirmed it controlled the claymore he would use to spring the ambush. His right hand grasped the length of communications cord that when pulled would set off a flare pot beyond the track

Alerting the rest of the killer group was a simple matter, as they all lay with legs interlocked the warning signal passed down the line smoothly. The gunners either side of him slowly raised their weapons, pulling the butts into their shoulders and each man locking his wrists together, ensuring a firm grip on the weapons.

Colin could not see a damn thing on the track until a dark shape appeared in front of the sandy bank, silhouetted against its lighter hues.

A column of men was on the track, moving slowly and quietly toward the east and Colin counted them as they appeared.

Eleven had entered the killing zone and that worried Colin because the numbers were a little on the light side for a fighting patrol, but he dared not wait too long on the off chance that there may be stragglers still to come.

He could feel the tension amongst his men and removed the safety from the clicker, closing both eyes tightly to preserve his night vision before closing his left hand firmly and ducking his head to the wet earth.

The concussion from the mines back-blast brought down debris from the branches of the trees above them, and a wave of heat swept over Colin.

The directional mines detonation was nothing like those depicted in Hollywood movies, there was no petrochemical booster to add to the visual effects, and no sound lab created throaty roar. A momentary flash of light of the same duration as that of a flash bulb was accompanied by a thunderclap of sound as the Claymore sent an expanding wall of seven hundred ball bearings outwards at an angle of sixty degrees from the point of detonation. Colin’s right arm jerked back, pulling the communications cord hard and there was a loud crack as the detonator in the flare pot blew off the top of the pot, exposing to the air the white phosphorous it contained.

A heartbeat after the Claymore went off the killer group opened fire almost as one, firing into anything that looked like a man, be it lying down, standing, kneeling or crawling away. They fired into the shadows where the trip flares light couldn’t reach and they fired into the bushes and trees that they could see, and they carried on firing until they heard Colin’s shouted

“Cease fire, cease fire, cease fire!” But as taught they remained in the aim because the cease fire order is merely a dummy, a lure for any enemy still able to make a break for it. Only one did, rising from a shallow piece of dead ground with the intention of getting beyond the illuminated area as fast as possible, he only got two paces from his hiding place before being cut down by a dozen weapons.

In the trip flares light Colin counted eight recognisable bodies, but there were other torn things lying out there, which could be three men nearest the Claymore when it went off. Nothing moved, and he reached inside his tunic, extracting a whistle that hung about his neck from a length of para cord and blew three loud blasts, the real signal to cease firing and also for two pairs to go forward and search the dead for anything of intelligence value.

Speed was now of the essence, and although Colin was fairly confident they had killed all the enemy before them, there was no one within five miles of this spot who was not now aware that they were here.

In the trip flares failing light the searchers moved quickly, but Colin was getting anxious and wanted to be gone from this spot. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end, and he was acutely aware that they were out on a limb, over a mile from the safety of friendly lines.

The tug of the communications cord attached to his left boot initially made him think one of his callsign had jumped the gun, snagging it as they moved about in preparation to bug out, but then the night was torn by the detonation of a Claymore behind the position, and with it the rear protection party began firing.

Despite Colin’s instructions to get in his bag and get a full nights kip, Oz found himself lying in the darkness of the shelter bay listening for the sounds of distant conflict. Oz had been in, and heard enough ambushes to know what they sounded like and his mind would not let him relax until he heard the distant boom and two brief instances of gunfire, and then his brain went to neutral and he started to slip into a half sleep in the knowledge that his friend would soon be returning.

It was with a start that Oz came to full wakefulness and it took him a moment to work out what had disturbed him. With an oath he groped for the maggots zipper and dragged it down, kicking his legs clear and dragging his SLR out of the bags folds before crawling quickly into the firebay.

In the darkness he could make out the shape of the 2 Pl Guardsman who was trench-sitting for the night. The soldier was looking toward the southwest when Oz emerged but turned his head toward the Sergeant.

“Summat’s up, sarge.”

Away from the warmth of the sleeping bag the chill night air made its presence felt but he ignored it as he listened to a smattering of small arms fire that tailed off into silence, before crouching to retrieve his woolly pully and smock from the bay and pulling them on hurriedly.

There was a distant flash of light, followed a moment later by two more in rapid succession but it took several seconds for the sound of the explosions to reach his ears as rolling booms, by which time red and green tracer rounds appeared, the stray ricochets from opposing forces.

The gunfire re-started in an almost halfhearted way but grew into a steady sustained roar dulled by distance, punctuated by the bangs of exploding hand grenades and the deeper thumps of detonating Claymore mines. Someone out there decided to put some light on the subject and a shermouli rose above the trees like a rocket on bonfire night, where its parachute flare gave the combatants a harsh and short lived chemical light to fight by.

Oz knew that there were no other friendly patrols in that area, which could only mean his mate and the platoon, were in deep dido.

Shrugging into his fighting order he put on his helmet and gathered up his SLR, before climbing from the trench.

The sounds of the firefight continued as he made his way behind the mainly empty trenches to find out what the score was with the men who had dug them.

L/Cpl Bethers had been surprised at the earlier O Group to find himself assigned the responsible slot of commanding the rear protection party, a task that CSM Probert almost always gave to the capable Sergeant Osgood when he led a patrol. It had dispelled the nagging feeling that he had screwed up during the grenade incident.

As important as it was, guarding everyone’s back, it was also one that entailed an aspect of divorce from the main proceedings in not knowing what was happening elsewhere. In some, this could be the cause of restlessness, and in others lethargy, so the young NCO was alert for signs that members of his small party had mentally switched off, or might compromise them all by fidgeting.

They had endured the wind and rain in much the same way as the rest had, by gritting their teeth and enduring it, but Bethers had found himself wishing the enemy would get his skates on so they could all get back to the company location and roll into their maggots.

With the springing of the ambush Bethers had switched on his night scope, scanning their surrounds without the device being hindered by the trip flares light. It had shown only the wet landscape in green hues, and reassured by this he had switched the device off.

His next look had been a different story as the shapes of armed men were now moving amongst the trees to at his twelve o’clock and ten o’clock, moving cautiously to envelop the British position, whilst several more were picking their way silently through the undergrowth, heading straight for the lance corporal and his gun group.

Bethers froze momentarily as he tried to decide what best to do, whether to call up the CSM and report, leaving the decision making to someone else, or whether to act. Immediately to his left lay his gun group and he alerted them to the danger with a thumbs down gesture before removing the safety on his own clicker and tugging on the communications cord before firing the mine.

On the track, the searching pairs stopped what they were doing but took differing courses of action in response to the fresh firing. The left hand pair dropped to the ground and began looking for threats, whilst their neighbours turned and ran back the way they had come. The runners were caught in a hail of fire from the direction their prey had come from, and sent tumbling into the mud before the unseen firers switched aim to the second pair.

As the trip flare sputtered and died Colin located the clicker for his number five Claymore, which was actually the first mine he had placed and was sighted along that track but facing towards his own position.

Colin filled his lungs and yelled at the top of his voice. “Incoming!” and the Guardsmen hugged the wet earth. Some of the mines seven hundred ball bearings sent splinters of wood down onto the exposed backs of the British troops but the six soviet paratroopers further down the track who were doing the firing were torn to shreds by the mine exploding behind them, allowing the second pair of searchers to regain the Guards position.

Switching his night scope on Colin swept it around and decided that the time for radio silence was long past.

“Hello all stations One One, this is Sunray, sitrep, over?”

Answering in sequence clockwise starting with the right cut off group, then the right flank, rear protection, left flank and finally the left cut off group, CSM Probert learnt their situation.

“One One Alpha, we have movement from our ten o’clock through to four o’clock, all foxhounds okay, over.”

“One One Bravo, movement to our front, all foxhounds okay, over.”

L/Cpl Bethers sounded breathless, the product of adrenaline still coursing through his system.

“One One Charlie, we bumped four attempting to infiltrate, we have movement from our eight to two o’clock. No foxhounds down, one Claymore expended, over”

“One One Delta, no enemy seen but we can hear them to our front, all foxhounds okay, over.”

Colin bit his lip; he had an awful feeling he did not want to hear what his final callsign had to say.

“One One Echo, troops in the trees from our eight o’clock, that’s who Delta are hearing, through to two o’clock, no foxhounds down, over.”

His platoon was surrounded which left him with two options, to break out or to dig in and hang on. It took a moment to decide on his course of action, and on changing his PRC 349 to the company frequency he sent his own sitrep.

Making his way to the company CP, Oz passed the mortar section attached to 1 Company and damn near got shot by their sentry who had been paying more attention to his mates laying on the 81mm tubes for a fire mission, than to what he was supposed to be doing. He hadn’t seen Oz until the sergeant was almost on top of him and had received a brief yet ear-blistering bollocking.

Oz could not get inside the CP, all the signallers had been roused and there was no space but CSM Tessler saw him peering through the blackout and squeezed his way out to join him above ground.

His eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness and he inhaled the smell of the trees and damp earth about them.

“How’s it going Oz?”

“That depends, is the platoon in trouble?”

The earlier high rate of fire in the distance was ebbing and flowing with periods of silence in between.

“They may have bumped the point section of a company, and not another patrol. They just fought off one attack and Col is digging in and calling for mortar fire support.”

Oz nodded.

“I passed the mortars on the way here, they aren’t firing though?”

“Brigade have tasked an Apache to do an over flight with infra-red to get a handle on opposition numbers, they won’t fly with rounds going down range… as soon as they are done then Colin gets his fire missions.”

Oz frowned but in the dark Ray Tessler couldn’t see the wrinkled forehead. “A handle on numbers, am I missing something here?” Irritation was growing within him. “… just shoot the sodding missions and worry about sodding numbers later, for God’s sake!”

Ray let the fit of pique pass before gesturing toward an unattended Warrior, which he headed towards whilst fishing a packet of cigarettes from a breast pocket. Once inside where the light wouldn’t show he handed one across.

“The company commander doesn’t like me smoking, he thinks it sets a bad example to the boys and is bad for my health… like being an infantryman in a war zone isn’t.”

When they had both lit up he blew out a lung full of smoke.

“There’s the remnants of a soviet airborne brigade wandering around somewhere in our rear, the brigade commander wants to know if this is some of them trying to regain their lines and the recce that got spotted was them looking for a safe route, rather than an attack on our support units.”

Sat across from him in the darkness Oz took a drag on his fag, illuminating his features in orange light.

“If it is a small group they’ll call it a day and try to find another way around Ray, but if it’s more than a company they may try to fight their way through.”

“I think that has occurred to them up at brigade Oz, and they will see it as a chance to take out some of those soviet airborne.”

Oz stubbed out the cigarette angrily.

“That’s my platoon and my mate out there, Ray.”

“And your platoon and your mate are British soldiers Oz, doing a soldiers job.”

“Yeah I know, I don’t have to be ecstatic about it though.”

Back in the forest a panting Guardsman crawled through the undergrowth dragging a pair of Bergens. Rounds cracked through the trees above him but only enough to harass the Guardsmen and remind them they weren’t alone.

The sounds of feverish digging by men hampered by the necessity of having to do it lying prone, filled the air. On arriving back at his position he found CSM Probert had carried on digging a shell scrape for him, and he uttered a word of thanks as the CSM picked up his bondook and crawled back into the trees, taking six of the riflemen and a gimpy with him.

Now that each of his men were reunited with their Bergens and the extra ammunition they held, Colin set up shop in the centre of the location where he could best control things. He sent a pair of riflemen to reinforce each of the flanks and kept the remaining two with the GPMG as a quick reaction force, only then did he begin digging some cover for himself.

So far they had been bloody lucky, the last attack had showed that the soviet airborne troops did not know the disposition or numbers of those they were taking on. It had come at his right cut off group from directly across the track, and half the paratroopers had unknowingly entered the original killing zone dominated by the killer group, and a combination of small arms and Claymores had chopped them up. They hadn’t been quite as fortunate with the remainder though and Colin had to bring up the remaining gimpy from the killer group in order to beat them back, but they had still managed to get within grenade range of the Guardsmen, killing one of his men and slightly wounding another.

His own shell scrape was only a couple of inches deep when someone screamed a warning, and mortar rounds began exploding on the position.

Seven and a half miles north an oblong shaped radar array sat at the rear of a Foden truck, pointing toward the forest. It picked out each mortar round twice during its time of flight and the information allowed the operators of ‘Arthur’, the artillery locating radar, to backtrack the flight of the rounds to within ten feet of the base plate positions they had been fired from. The information was passed along until it arrived at B Battery, 17 Field Regiment Royal Artillery, and the barrels of its AS 90, 155mm self-propelled guns swung around to the required bearing and elevation, but remained there without firing.

Colin lay in the shallow depression with his hands pressed to his ears as yet another belt of mortar rounds straddled the Guards enclave, one striking a tree and amputating the top twenty feet from the rest of the trunk, splinters of wood found soft tissue below as the severed section crashed down.

Colin didn’t hear the beat of rotor blades passing overhead, but the Apaches occupants noted the fall of shot matched the point on the map they had been told the friendly forces were, they reported that important item back and continued with their task.

Once the last round had impacted Colin called for another sitrep before again switching to the company net, requesting once again the defensive fires that would bracket his position and give them some breathing space to carry out a quick reorg. He didn’t hear the reply because the ground rose up and smacked him in the face, filling his mouth with mud and pine needles as more rounds slammed onto the position.

It takes bags of guts and discipline to make maximum use of supporting fire, because it entails the risk of taking casualties from it. While the rounds were still landing a Russian paratrooper captain rose to his feet just across the wide firebreak from the Guards right flank and ran forwards, firing from the hip. Two dozen men followed him, well spread out in a line and screaming like banshee’s as they did so.

Nikoli grunted in pain as he was struck in the right thigh, but the leg didn’t collapse so he ran on, borne along by a mixture of fear and adrenaline.

Halfway across the firebreak the sound of his men firing was replaced by two tremendous explosions, and he flinched and faltered, deafened by the blasts and robbed of his night vision by the flash of the detonations.

Falling to the ground he squeezed his eyes closed to rid them of the after image left by the flashes, and on opening them again he looked to his left and right, seeing that two men were still with him, but of the rest they either lay screaming in wounded agony or broken and motionless where they had been flung.

Pure luck had guided him to this spot; the Claymore that had covered this area had been fired on the previous assault, which was cold comfort for the men on the left and right.

Raising his head a fraction Nikoli could see they were just twelve or so feet from the tree line, and muzzle flashes from the dark interior showed the NATO troops perimeter was about ten feet beyond that.

Fresh firing came from behind them and Nikoli knew the next wave was about to begin its assault. His right thigh was now throbbing in earnest but he ignored the pain and reached inside an ammunition pouch for a grenade, showing it to the other two men who did the same, and when all three pins were pulled he raised himself on one arm and they threw them towards the nearest enemy position.

When all three grenades went off he pushed himself to his feet but stumbled as his right leg gave way and was then knocked over backwards by the falling body of one of the men, his right leg was bent backwards, trapped underneath him and he screamed in agony, pushing at the dead paratroopers body that bore him down.

In his pain Nikoli was only distantly aware of the ground bucking beneath him, with the detonation of 81mm mortar rounds impacting on the next wave of paratroops, and the more distant explosions of 155mm artillery rounds creating ruin on the soviet mortar line. With a final heave he rolled away the dead body and freed his injured leg, but relief brought a roaring in his ears and darkness dimmed his vision as the rain began once more, beating down upon the already sodden terrain.

Colin lay on his side and planted a foot on the prone body of a soviet para that had breached the perimeter, entering through a gap created by the grenading, and gripping the pistol grip of his SLR with both hands he pulled backwards, freeing the attached bayonet that emerged from the dead man’s chest with a sucking sound.

His hands shook and he had to take a deep breath to compose himself before leading his tiny reserve at a crawl towards the sound of screaming at the point of penetration. A Guardsman thrashed on the ground with both hands pressed before his eyes, and Colin could only remove a morphine syrette and jab it into the blinded man’s thigh. He emptied the man’s ammunition pouches, handing one of the magazines and a grenade to a rifleman before unzipping the casualties smock, extracting a belt of fifty rounds which he snapped in half, tossing one half to the gunner. He repeated this with the wounded man’s oppo after confirming no pulse remained, but stuffed everything inside his own smock for redistribution elsewhere, and finally he removed the I.D tags from about the neck and put them in a pocket.

Colin left his pair of Guardsman plugging the gap and hauled the wounded soldier back to the centre of the position by the yoke of his webbing, where he left him.

The Army Air Corps AH Mk 1 Apache finished its sweep at the forests southern edge and egresses to the north east to take up a holding pattern whilst someone decided what next it should do.

Standing in the open and listening to the sound of it depart a soviet paratrooper removed his helmet and raised his face toward the falling rain. The droplets made little effect on the grease based camouflage cream that broke up the contours of features made gaunt by half rations and near exhaustion, and failed to absorb into the matted greying hair that was normally shaved almost to the scalp.

As if accepting that the rain could not wash away the weight of responsibility he shook his head as a dog rids its coat of unwanted suds, and replaced the headgear.

He viewed the members of his small staff that crouched beneath the bows of the trees.

“Gentlemen, I do not believe that taking cover fooled that aircraft for a second, they know we are here now.”

Reaching down he assisted one of the men to his feet but the man could only grunt his thanks, a dressing about his head held a shattered jaw in place and the often cold soup he was forced to ingest did not provided sufficient calories. He was desperately weak and for a few moments he clung to the arm of Colonel General Alontov as he fought for balance. “It’s alright Stefan, one way or another our trek is coming to an end.”

Without aid from their own forces Alontov had led his units back towards the east, largely avoiding the limited forces SACEUR had been able to spare for mopping up.

Their radios had failed even before leaving Braunschweig, because there is a limit to how much an airborne unit can carry and without a single re-supply drop the radios had lasted only as long as their finite stock of batteries.

The route east had been a zigzag affair of forced marches by night and mainly sleepless days after they had gone to ground to avoid detection during the daylight hours. Fires were out of the question and the inclement weather had denied them much in the way of sleep.

“I do not know what forces are currently ahead of us but I think we can be certain that they will increase, come the dawn.”

Those present watched him divest himself of all equipment except that needed to fight, and then they too removed their packs and filled pockets with the spare ammunition they held.

“Send runners out to each of the battalion commanders, inform them that NATO knows the brigade is here in this forest and they are to act as they see fit in their own individual circumstances. Either to dig in or to try and break out… just cause as much mayhem as possible to draw NATO reserves away from the front”

Standing quietly on the fringes were the two company commanders of his own elite Spetznaz troops who had jumped into Leipzig with him a hundred years ago, or so it now seemed. Over a third of their number had fallen since that night, and now an equal number carried wounds.

Serge left his staff to complete their preparations and led the pair away.

“Well now boys, we have some proper work to do, no more of this skulking in the woods and avoiding fights with half trained Bundswehr reservists. The funds we appropriated from the late Comrade Peridenko have been divided up equally and someone I trust in Moscow will be delivering it in gold to the next of kin of everyone in the companies, the dead and the still living.”

Neither man replied, accepting the deeper meaning of the words with fatalism.

“Go and bring up your men to the track junction we just passed, I have some final details to go over with the staff and then I shall join you there.”

The more senior of the company commanders had shared many adventures and adversities with his boss and had obeyed without question every order he had been given, be it to torch an Afghan hill village or act as chauffeur to a beautiful blonde air hostess, returning her home from a burning dacha.

“What are your orders Colonel General?”

Serge smiled in the darkness.

“Someone picked a fight with us tonight Mikhail, and we are going to finish it.”