Battlefield Pacific

Battle of Britain

Major Artem Ivanov looked at the equipment in the back of the van.

“This should do the trick,” he thought. “It’s about time we get this show on the road.”

Ivanov’s Spetsnaz unit had spent three long months holed up in their safe house, anxiously watching the war play out in the news. It had been too long since their last attack order; his elite team of soldiers was itching to get back into the fight.

It wasn’t that they had been completely silent. When the war started, Major Ivanov’s team had carried out a complex attack against the critically important RAF base at Croughton — a major communications facility between the US and UK, responsible for coordinating the defense of Europe. On the opening day of the war, Ivanov’s unit had launched sixty-eight 82mm mortar rounds at the base, severely damaging its capabilities at a critical moment in the war.

That first mission had put a huge bullseye on their backs. They’d stayed in their position too long and nearly gotten caught. After a brief shoot-out with the police, they’d barely managed to get away and escape to a safe house. They’d spent the next few weeks constantly changing safe house locations, and at one point, they had hidden out in the back of a lorry being driven around Scotland for two weeks. Once things had cooled down a bit, Ivanov’s team had eventually settled into a safe house in the North Yorkshire area and waited for the next call to come.

In February, they were given six targeted assassinations to complete — members of Parliament from the Tory Party. Ivanov had correctly surmised that this might have something to do with all of the antiwar rallies he had been seeing promoted on the news by the head of the Labour Party, Anthony Chattem. The reason didn’t really matter, though, as long as it was in service to Russia.

Major Ivanov broke his unit into two-man teams and assigned each of them a Tory MP to kill and a timeline to accomplish their task. Each team had two weeks to figure out how and when they would take out their target. Once their task was completed, they would head to a new safe house and stand by to make sure they had not been found out. If it was safe for them to reconsolidate back to the Yorkshire area, they would wait there for further instructions.

Unfortunately for Ivanov, one of his teams was compromised when one of the team members accidentally left a fingerprint on the scene. His biometrics matched to an MI6 database on potential Spetsnaz members, and the British authorities followed him back to his team’s hideout. After two days of surveilling the two-man team, British authorities raided the house they were operating out of. Major Ivanov’s team fully utilized their combat training, taking several police officers to their graves. However, they’d ultimately died in a hail of gunfire, which had made for a very splashy headline across the country.

The other teams had succeeded in their missions, with one of the teams scoring a three-for-one when a group of three Tory MPs were killed during lunch. Several months had passed now though, and they were all becoming increasingly anxious for their next kill. The one consolation that they took was the story they saw unfolding on the news; their actions had clearly hurt the ruling party’s control of the government. Between the domestic turmoil and the high casualties in the war, Prime Minister Katherine Edwards was steadily losing her hold on the government.

Finally, the day they had been waiting for arrived. Their GRU handler left them a message. They would carry out a mortar attack against RAF Menwith Hill, a critical facility in the British early-warning system. Shutting it down would increase the potential success of an air or missile attack against the British Isles.

Their instructions had been specific; they were to be in position to bomb the base at precisely 2100 hours — not a minute before and not a minute later. Major Ivanov’s eight Spetsnaz piled into the two vans and headed out to the Darley Supersonic Bike Park, an off-road bike park. The location was relatively removed from any local population and within range for the mortars to hit the RAF base. This spot gave them the best possible chance of pulling off the attack and still being able to escape. His experienced team would be able to fire off all thirty-six mortar rounds in less than three minutes.

It took them nearly two hours to reach the bike park. When they arrived, it was already dark, so of course, the park was closed. One of the sergeants popped out of the lead van, whipped out his lock pick set, and made quick work of the padlock on the gate. After the vans drove through, the sergeant closed the entrance again, placing the lock on one side without snapping it shut. This way, hopefully no one would spot anything out of the ordinary while they prepared for their attack.

As they pulled up to their launch site, Major Ivanov began issuing orders in rapid fire. “Sergeant Morozov, I want you to work on getting the mortar tubes ready. Alexin, position the mortar rounds near the tubes, so they’ll be ready when the firing starts. Lieutenant Nikolaev, get in position to start calling in the rounds. Make sure they’re on target, and if they’re off, call in the adjustment so we can keep the rounds coming. We need to take those radar domes out — that is our primary mission.”

“Yes, Sir,” they replied in unison.

Lieutenant Nikolaev grabbed his small pack and his AK-104 and headed off to his observation point. As the other soldiers got the mortar tubes setup and ready, Ivanov ordered one of the sergeants to head back down the dirt road to the entrance of the park. The sergeant dutifully sought out a few bushes where he could hide and observe the road approaching their position. With a high-explosive round in his grenade gun, if someone did manage to find them, he’d be ready to take them out.

Major Artem Ivanov looked at his wristwatch — one minute until showtime. He keyed in his mic. “Viper Two, are you in position?” he asked Lieutenant Nikolaev.

“Viper Six, Viper Two is in position. I’m ready when you guys are,” he responded.

Ivanov pulled a notebook out of his pocket. He had been given a set of exact coordinates for their targets from their GRU handlers, so they had a pretty good idea where the rounds needed to land.

“Drop the first round,” he ordered.

Sergeant Morozov lifted the mortar above his shoulder and held it over the tube for just a second before he dropped the round down the tube. He instinctively moved to the side just as the propellant for the round ignited and launched the mortar into the air. The round flew high and true, over the protective perimeter fence of the RAF base, and landed just short and to the right of the central cluster of radar domes that they needed to take out.

“Viper Six. Adjust fire. Up 100 meters, right 50 meters. Fire for effect,” called Lieutenant Nikolaev.

Morozov made a quick adjustment to the mortar tubes, and the team of Special Forces quickly dropped rounds as fast as they could. In less than three minutes, they had fired all thirty-six rounds. Explosions and sirens both blared off in the distance, a sure sign of their handiwork.

Major Ivanov spoke loudly to the men. “Leave the tubes, and let’s get in the vans and get out of here.”

As the others quickly climbed into the two delivery vans they were using as cover, Sergeant Morozov pulled a pin on each of the three thermite grenades, making sure each of the three tubes was spiked and would destroy any physical or forensic evidence left behind.

While they were making their way down the trail to the park exit, Major Ivanov heard an unwanted sound — the telltale whoomphing of helicopter blades. Thump, thump, thump came the reverberating noise. It was clearly getting closer to their position.

He let out a stream of exceptionally crude Russian vulgarities. “They must have had a direction finder radar set up at the base. How did we not know about that?” thought Ivanov.

He ran through their various options, which were very limited. They didn’t have a MANPAD with them, so shooting the helicopter down with a missile was out of the question. Trying to run away in the van was also not going to work; it was 2100 hours and this far out in the county, there wouldn’t be a lot of traffic. They would be easily found.

Ivanov looked around at the faces in the van, and then he made the only sensible decision he could in this situation. “Listen up,” he said. “There’s a helicopter coming our way. If that chopper discovers us, it’s going to attack us. We do not have a lot of options. If we have to return fire, I want you guys to focus your firepower on the cockpit of the helicopter or its engine. We need to disable it quickly and then do our best to get away and blend back into the population. If we make it out of this and get separated, go to Alternate Plan Charlie and stand by for further instructions. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Sir,” they replied.

Ivanov’s radio crackled to life. “Viper Six, this is Viper Two,” said Lieutenant Nikolaev, who sounded out of breath from running toward the entrance of the park to meet up with the team. “We have a Lynx helicopter inbound to our position… he just flew over me. He’s headed right for you guys!”

Ivanov yelled, “Everyone out! Shoot it down as soon as you see it!” Their vehicle ground to a halt on the dirt trail. Seconds later the doors opened, and everyone spilled out of the van just as the roar of a heavy machine gun pierced the air and bullets ripped through the vehicle.

Captain Ian Pendleton was aggravated. He took a long pull on his cigarette and slowly released the smoke through his nostrils, trying to let out all of his frustrations with it.

“How am I going to get back into the action that’s happening on the Continent?” he wondered.

He had been sidelined for a while. During one of the failed offensives in Ukraine, Pendleton had been on a flying mission when his Lynx had taken heavy enemy fire and had been shot down. While he’d survived with just a bullet wound to the leg, his copilot and two crew members had all perished when the helicopter had caught fire. Ian had barely had enough time to get himself out of the chopper before it had blown up, let alone try and drag all three of the unconscious crew members out of the wreckage.

Pendleton had been plagued since then with the constant cycle of memories from that day. He felt terrible about not having tried harder to see if any of his crew members were alive before he’d fled from the wreckage. All that had run through his mind was that the helicopter was on fire, his leg was bleeding badly, and he knew he needed to get away before he passed out from blood loss.

Following his recovery, Captain Pendleton had been assigned a new helicopter and crew and sent to Menwith Hill to give support to the local RAF bases in case they came under ground attack. It tore him up not being sent back to a frontline combat unit, but even though he wished he were on the front lines, he was slowly trying to accept his new role.

Once a night, Pendleton and his crew would fly around the bases where they were assigned and use their infrared and thermal sights to see if they spotted anything out of the ordinary. Due to a mechanical problem on the earlier shift, they were now two hours behind schedule.

Captain Pendleton finished his cigarette break just before the crew chief, Staff Sergeant Linda Faux, gave him the signal that she had just finished her systems check of his new Lynx.

Suddenly, there was an odd thump in the distance. Then the noise disappeared.

“Did you hear that, Chief?” asked Pendleton as he quickly jumped to his feet.

A second later, they heard the unmistakable whistling sound of the mortar flying in. Bam! The round exploded next to one of the radar domes.

“Everyone in the helicopter now!” yelled Captain Pendleton. “We need to get airborne and find where that’s coming from!” He quickly ran to his own helicopter and jumped in. Before the next round could land, Ian skipped 99 % of his preflight checks as he immediately turned the engine over and got the blades going. His copilot jumped into his seat and grabbed for his helmet. The other two crew members hastily did the same.

“Sergeant Faux, make sure the machine gun is ready. When we find out who’s firing those mortars at the base, you need to light them up! Understood?” He shouted to be heard over the now rapidly spinning blades.

Before she could respond, explosions suddenly rocked the base. Multiple mortar rounds landed among the radar domes that dominated the southern half of the base. It was clear by looking at where the explosions were cropping up that the attackers were targeting the early-warning radar systems and not the actual members who manned them.

After a few tense moments, Pendleton took the Lynx off the ground. At first, they skidded and slid along the grassy field, and then they rose a little. Finally, they gained more altitude as their power ramped up. Once in the air, everyone scanned the nearby area, trying to see where the mortars were coming from.

“Over there, three o’clock!” shouted Sergeant Faux as she spotted three more mortars lifting off from behind a cluster of trees.

Ian scanned that area, and while he could not see the exact launch point, he did catch a glimpse of the mortar rounds as they reached their zenith point and fell back to earth. He turned the helicopter in that direction and applied some speed.

Lieutenant Samantha Corbyn, his copilot, turned the infrared on and scanned the area. Not seeing anything pop up, she switched over to thermals. Immediately, she and Pendleton saw a cluster of people doing something in the trees and then piling into two vehicles. One person appeared to have lit off some sort of thermite grenade, because whatever he dropped in the glowing hot mortar tubes flared up with almost instant heat.

“That’s them. Call it in, Corbyn!” Pendleton directed. He angled the Lynx to come in for a better attack run. With two machine guns fitted next to the side doors, he was going to angle the helicopter to come in with a slight bank to the left so Sergeant Faux would have a good angle to attack them from.

“I see them. Engaging now!” shouted Faux as she depressed the butterfly trigger on her machine gun. Her weapon chattered, spitting out rounds at a high rate in the direction of the lead vehicle. She saw the red tracers hitting just in front of the vehicle, with one or two slamming directly into it. Adjusting her fire, she depressed the trigger again and let out another burst of machine-gun fire. Then she walked the fire back to the second vehicle as Captain Pendleton veered the helicopter to the left and slowed them down.

As she was adjusting her weapon to open fire again, she saw half a dozen muzzle flashes. One of the weapons was using green tracers, which quickly whipped through the air in their direction. The helicopter jolted, and Linda felt bullets hitting the side of it. She fired back at the attackers, desperately trying to silence them before they got lucky and shot them down. One of the vehicles caught fire and summarily exploded, engulfing at least two of the attackers.

“We’re taking fire!” Corbyn yelled to Pendleton as he jinked the helicopter hard to one side, giving the chopper additional throttle as he tried to gain altitude. Thwap, thwap, crunch. The helicopter continued taking hits.

Alarm bells blared in Pendleton’s helmet. He and Corbyn continued to try and pull them up higher to get them out of range of the ground fire. “Is everyone OK?” he shouted over the intercom, hoping no one had been hit.

Sergeant Faux turned to look at her partner-in-crime, who gave her a thumbs-up sign that she was fine. “We’re OK back here,” Faux replied. “How about you guys in front?”

“We’re good,” answered Pendleton. “I’m pulling us up and out of their range. I’ll come around again from higher altitude. See if you can keep them pinned down while we wait for additional help to arrive.”

The Lynx banked hard to the right as they settled into a high-altitude circle racetrack that would allow them to loiter over the area and continue to shoot at them with their machine guns until reinforcements could arrive. Corbyn had already called in the quick reaction force, who was currently en route to their position. They just needed to keep the soldiers on the ground pinned down while they waited for help.

Major Ivanov cursed as the helicopter continued to loiter above them, firing at them. “We need to find a way to get out of here before their reinforcements arrive or we’re through,” he realized.

Reading the major’s mind, Sergeant Morozov unzipped the rifle case he had grabbed from the van during their hasty retreat. He quickly pulled the OSV-96 sniper rifle out of the case and unfolded it. Locking the rifle in place, he slapped the five-round magazine of 12.7×108mm AP rounds into place. Lifting the rifle to his shoulder, he took aim at the helicopter that was circling around them, looking to kill more of his comrades.

Sighting in the engine compartment of the helicopter, he took aim at it and squeezed the trigger. The rifle barked loudly as the armor-piercing round flew out of the barrel at 920 meters per second. As soon as the next round cycled into his rifle, he saw a small spark on the engine compartment of the helicopter, followed by a small flame. The helicopter listed a bit to one side.

Morozov took aim at the cockpit of the helicopter as it continued to struggle to stay airborne and fired another round. This time, the helicopter veered hard. The pilot was clearly trying to put some more distance between them as their chopper fell from the sky. A few minutes later, they heard the helicopter crash, though they didn’t see an explosion.

“Everyone, get in the van. We need to get out of here!” yelled Major Ivanov as the remaining members piled into the only working vehicle. He was angry that they had lost another three members of their team during this last skirmish.

As soon as everyone was inside, the driver immediately gave the van gas, accelerating quickly down the dirt road. In no time at all, they had reached the country road, which they all hoped will lead them to safety. They raced down the back road toward the A61. From there, it should be easier to put some distance between themselves and the scene of the attack.

Five minutes went by as continued racing toward the highway. Then they spotted the first signs of trouble. A small cluster of police cars blocked the road that led to the A61. Ivanov saw the driver look in his side mirrors.

“Sir, we have a police car chasing us and a road block in front of us,” he reported nervously. “I have nowhere to turn off right now. We’re going to have to engage the roadblock and hope the vehicle survives or steal another ride.”

“OK, everyone, here’s what we’re going to do,” declared Major Ivanov. “When the van comes to a stop, I need everyone to focus your fire on the police at the roadblock — use suppressive fire and charge them. We need to take them out and then split up. Try to steal one of their squad cars or another car in the village if you can on the way out. Take separate routes to the alternate location, and I’ll see you there.” Ivanov readied his weapon for what was certain to be a brief and violent shoot-out with the police.

Approaching the roadblock at high speed, the driver suddenly slammed on the brakes as the police officers began to shoot at them with their pistols. In less than a second, the Spetsnaz soldiers jumped out of the vehicle and immediately emptied their magazines at the two police cars and the four officers manning the roadblock.

While Ivanov’s men were attacking the police in front of them, he went around the other side of the van to face the police car giving them chase. He leveled the 40mm grenade gun at them and pulled the trigger. He watched the round fly toward the vehicle and impact on the front hood, sending shrapnel into the front of the vehicle and either killing or severely wounding the officer driving the vehicle. The car veered off the road and hit a tree; flames burst out from the hood.

Ivanov carefully moved around to look at the carnage at the roadblock. He saw two of his soldiers laying down suppressive fire while two more of his men charged the police. In seconds, all four of the police officers lay dead on the ground from multiple gunshots. As quickly as the engagement had happened, it ended. All five of the Spetsnaz soldiers survived.

They were all in the process of moving to find getaway vehicles when they heard the thumping of another helicopter coming toward them. Turning to look over his shoulder, Ivanov spotted the nose gun of the Apache attack helicopter blink a couple of times before his brain registered that his body was being torn apart by the 30mm chain gun. In seconds, all five remaining members of the Spetsnaz team were wiped out in spectacular fashion.

Skimming just above the water, the Russian Tu-160 Blackjack bomber was closing in on their firing point. Colonel Petr Orlov was perspiring profusely as he fought to keep his plane just above the sea. This was probably the most nervous he had been on a combat mission since the surprise attack on the first day of the war, and it was also his longest mission. To avoid detection, Colonel Orlov had his flight of four bombers top off their fuel tanks over the Barents Sea before dropping in altitude to just above the wavetops for the remainder of their flight.

At precisely 2110 hours local time, they would rise up to 500 meters, fire off their twelve Kh-101 long-range cruise missiles and then drop back down to the wave tops. If all went well, they would successfully strike several key industrial and government buildings in Aberdeen, Birmingham, Liverpool, and London.

“I wonder how many of our cruise missiles will hit their targets?” Orlov pondered.

The British had an exceptional antimissile picket system along their coast. To date, they had succeeded in intercepting every cruise missile attack the Russians had tried. During their preflight briefing, they had been informed that a Spetsnaz team was going to handle the early-warning system at RAF Menwith Hill. If that came to fruition, then chances were a lot of their cruise missiles might just hit their targets this time.

As Orlov’s bomber neared the launch time, he moved his left hand to wipe the beads of sweat that were now running down his face as the aircraft sped above the water at 960 kilometers per hour.

His radio crackled. “We’re two minutes away from launch,” announced his bombardier.

“Copy that. Rising. Stand by for weapons release,” Orlov replied. He pulled back on the controls, keeping an eye on the altimeter until he saw he was at the launch height and leveled out. If there were an enemy ship or aircraft operating in the area, he would suddenly appear on their radar. He was exposed now.

Listening in on the radio net, he could hear his fellow bombers releasing their cruise missiles. Then his bombardier came over the intercom. “Weapons release,” came the order.

“Releasing weapons,” Orlov answered. One after another of his twelve cruise missiles dropped from his internal weapons bay, igniting and speeding off to their preprogrammed targets.

Just as the last missile dropped free of the weapons bay and sped off, the defensive systems officer jumped on the intercom. “We have a search radar painting us. I’m working on jamming it now. It appears to be from a ship in the area,” he explained.

Colonel Orlov’s radar warning alarm blared in his ear. Someone was trying to get a lock on them, and he had to do his best to throw them off.

As soon as the light from his bay door turned from green to red, he banked the aircraft hard to head toward home. Then he dropped back down to 40 meters above the water and increased speed to nearly Mach 2. His heart pumped wildly.

A painful minute went by. Suddenly, the radar warbling in his ear stopped. Orlov sighed in relief — they were in the clear again.

When he had placed a hundred kilometers between them and the spot where they had been detected by an enemy radar, he slowed the bomber down to its cruise speed to conserve fuel. Thankfully, a refueling tanker would be waiting for them once they entered the Barents Sea area and the safety of Russian airspace.

The following morning was relatively cool as the sun finally rose and burned away the remnant of the morning twilight. Anthony Chattem depressed the call button on the outdoor table of the Oxford and Cambridge Club. Despite being a senior member of the British government, he hadn’t been whisked away when the capital had been attacked, and for that, he was supremely irate. Seeing that he was considered not important enough to protect by the Tories, he opted to go have breakfast at one of his favorite private locations.

Mr. Chattem liked to eat breakfast at the exclusive club at least once a month. He particularly liked drinking his tea on the outside terrace. The cool morning air was always invigorating before a busy day.

His Chief of Staff greeted him somberly. “It’s a shame what happened last night, isn’t it, Mr. Chattem?” he remarked.

Chattem nodded, doing his best to conceal any hint of happiness at the misfortunes of others.

“The thing is — this is going to play well in the press and with my supporters,” he mused. He imagined a headline splashed across the front page of the paper. Tories Secretly Hope Labour Leader Gets Killed in Russian Raid.

Looking out into the city, Mr. Chattem could see the pillars of smoke still hanging in the air from the multiple cruise missiles that hit a series of defense and government buildings across the city. The maître-d’ opened the door to the terrace, and a colonel from the Ministry of Defence walked out to join them, along with a couple members of Chattem’s security detail.

The MOD colonel cleared his throat to gain Chattem’s attention. “Sir, it is highly recommended that we move you to a more secure facility,” he announced. “We’re not sure if the attack on London is over.”

Mr. Chattem stared him down with daggers. “Interesting how the government only deems it necessary for me to be moved to a protected bunker several hours after the attack, as opposed to before the missiles landed,” he replied angrily.

The colonel’s expression did not change, which further annoyed Chattem. “I think if the Russians were going to launch another surprise attack like they did last night, they would have done it already,” he replied.

The colonel remained stoic and unchanged. Chattem was boiling now. “Answer me this, Colonel — how was it the Russians were able to get close enough to hit us with cruise missiles and not be detected? How is it our defensive systems were unable to intercept these missiles, as they had in the past?”

The colonel stood there for a moment, looking as if he wanted to say something course, but he managed to hold his tongue. Instead, he let out a soft sigh and replied, “A Spetsnaz team disabled our early-warning system just as the enemy bombers fired their cruise missiles. By the time we were able to get other radar systems operational to fill in the gaps in coverage, the enemy missiles were raining down on our cities.”

Chattem grunted. “What targets were hit here in London, and what were the casualty figures?” he asked. He planned on using the information in his upcoming press conference he would call later in the day.

The colonel pulled a notepad out of his breast pocket and flipped it open. “The Ministry of Defence building, Her Majesty's Treasury, Scotland Yard, Houses of Parliament, Waterloo Station, Kings Cross Station, and the Lloyd’s Building were all severely damaged, along with several other buildings in the insurance district. The remaining five missiles hit Heathrow Airport, causing significant damage to Terminal 5 and Terminal 3.”

The colonel paused for a second before continuing. “It appears the intent of the Russian attack was twofold: first to damage our transportation system, which is why they targeted Waterloo, Kings Cross, and Heathrow, and second to go after our government centers to prove the MOD could not protect them and the population. As to casualties, fortunately, the attacks happened late in the evening, so it could have been worse. So far, there have been roughly two thousand people killed, and almost the same number injured. Most of those who perished died at Heathrow and the two train stations.”

“This is a disaster for the Tories,” thought Mr. Chattem. He had to work to keep his face calm as he realized that he might really have a legitimate chance of unseating PM Edwards. Then a sick feeling hit him in the pit of his stomach. “Could Max’s backers have caused this?” he wondered. He didn’t think it was possible that they were really that powerful and influential.

“Very well, Colonel. We’ll come with you to the bunker,” he conceded. “Please lead the way.” He got up and followed the colonel to a waiting vehicle.