Fight Through

CHAPTER 7

The western bank of the river at the Soviet bridgehead rose quite steeply for sixty feet and flattened out for two hundred metres before rising again as a low hillside for a further two hundred. To prevent erosion the soil had been seeded with a hardy, long rooted variety of grass and conifers had also been planted five years before for extra binding of the earth.

Armies tend not to be particularly eco-friendly especially when on the move and this one had bulldozed its way up from the river’s edge and away inland. The natural routes up the slopes to open country had been turned into quagmires by countless tracked armoured vehicles and in order to accommodate the wheeled logistical support transports, fresh routes were created by the engineers using chain saws on the young trees, before laying roadways of steel mesh matting across ground undamaged by the armour, up to the nearest metalled road. The result was one less of managed landscape and more of a construction site, with just the odd tree remaining here and there amid the morass of mud and metal.

When the Rzeszów Motor Rifle Division had crossed the Elbe it left a detachment of its engineers behind at the river, as had other divisions, where they could continue the building of further bridges and maintain the existing ones. Twenty-nine pontoon and ribbon bridges had been thrown across the Elbe irregularly spaced so that some were as close as thirty metres from their neighbour whilst others were several hundred metres apart. Speed rather than uniformity had been the prime force driving their construction the night before, to get men and vehicles across in sufficient numbers to establish a secure perimeter on the far bank before NATO could counter attack. The Soviet engineers working on the bridge furthest upstream, the autobahn bridge, had succeeded in spanning the gaps blown in the original roadway by British Royal Engineers, and the first tanks had crossed the bridge by the light of the dawn. That bridge had stood for all of an hour, Turkish F-4s had knocked down the temporary spans along with three pontoon bridges, at terrible cost to themselves especially as all the bridges had been repaired or replaced within two hours.

On each occasion that NATO aircraft had attacked, several bridges had been temporarily put out of action, but the attackers themselves had been hacked from the skies.

The company commander of 43^rd MRRs engineer company had charge of four of the bridges, of which one was closed for repair and maintenance at any given time, but the weight of traffic had taken its toll on all of the temporary constructions. For twelve hours the bridges had been at maximum capacity as fifteen divisions had crossed onto the western bank of the Elbe. Once the bulk of the armour, headquarters echelons, and divisional logistic and combat support units had crossed, and convoys had moved the various divisions supply dumps over to the west of the river he had to take three of the bridges out of service for some emergency TLC. This remaining bridge was for east to west traffic and its approaches, as with every one of the river crossings, was marked at intervals showing it to be either an ‘Up’ or ‘Down’ route and field police checkpoints out of sight of the river were enforcing the correct flow of traffic.

On the eastern bank, close to the flowing waters, a temporary heliport had taken shape. Served by the helicopter regiments ground support vehicles it had managed a quick turnaround for aircraft requiring only reloads and fuel, but demand had outstripped available fuel stocks so a pair of Havocs and three Hind-Ds were on the ground there now, their engines shut down, the metal ticking as it cooled and contracted. The crews had gathered at a field kitchen were they sipped at scalding coffee and wolfed down hot food as they waited.

Security on the ground for the bridgehead was a fraction of that employed on air defence, the AAA sites were in evidence wherever anyone cared to look but less than a battalion of infantry and two companies of military police were forming the immediate perimeter. The land war had moved on and this area was now secure from ground attack, that was the official line, and no one had dared to ask why only fifteen divisions had crossed to the west of the Elbe, no one asked the nature of the business that was keeping three divisions tied up east of the river.

Outside of the General Staff and of course those units engaged in trying to unseat NATO Airborne forces from positions in their rear, it was not common knowledge that many of the most direct supply lines from the east had been cut, in fact for those in the know to be caught talking about it was to invite summary execution for the offence of defeatism.

There was a fairly steady flow of trucks going east to bring up more stores and war stocks, replenishment for the divisional depots, and ambulances were much in evidence too, but busy with a multitude of tasks the Major of Engineers did not notice that the traffic from east to west should have been heavier. His world was filled with the noise of metal on metal, tools being wielded in manual labour and the sound of his men exerting themselves in order to have the bridges fit to carry traffic once more and themselves back on dry land, close to the trenches for when NATO fighter bombers came visiting again.

A locking pin for one of the bridging sections had become bent and required changing before it sheared, the major and a sapper were employing muscle power to take the tension off the joint connecting both sections. They were using a manual winch attached to a length of steel hawser, anchored at one end to the other section, and it required their combined weight to take up the slack, working as they were against the rivers pull. Two other sappers were over the side of the bridge, suspended by safety lines over the water as they attempted to extract a banana shaped pin from a long straight hole. After fifteen minutes of sweat, the pounding by hammers and the grunting of obscenities aimed at the god of inanimate objects the offending item came free and was swiftly replaced. The major leant, panting and perspiring against the fender of the utility vehicle which carried much of the ancillary equipment, including the winch they had used. As the pin checkers pulled themselves back onto the road bed and moved along the bridge to the next section, he waved away an offered cigarette and looked toward the western horizon, judging that they had less than an hour’s daylight remaining. Because he was looking in that direction he saw the vehicles at the top of the furthest rise, the sun was behind them and he had to use a hand to shade his eyes.

“What are those morons doing coming east on a westbound route?” He was speaking to himself but his companion stared in the direction his company commander was looking.

“Maybe the MP’s are asleep, sir?”

Asleep or not he couldn’t allow the vehicles onto the wrong bridge and he despatched the sapper to direct them in the right direction. The soldier jogged along the bridge towards the western bank and the major wiped the sweat from his eyes with a sleeve before fishing a water bottle from a pouch on his belt. He took only enough to rinse out his mouth, gargling briefly before spitting the fluid into the fast flowing waters of the river and replacing the bottle securely. A line of a dozen fuel trucks escorted by BTR-70s, was making its way slowly west across the bridge upstream of the one on which he was stood, he studied the way the bridge sections reacted to the load with a critical eye. It needed some serious work done on it before long or it was going to come apart, but that was a problem to be addressed by the Bulgarian engineers who owned it, not him.

Looking back towards the western bank he noticed that the vehicles on the skyline had not moved down towards the river, but some of them were moving left and right, away from the line of march so perhaps they had managed to work it out for themselves unassisted. By shading his eyes again he could now see that the traffic appeared to be tanks, so they had to be well and truly lost to have arrived back at the bridgehead.

His sapper had trudged halfway up the bank but had then stopped, turning and running back down the slope, losing his footing at one point and was now back on the bridge, waving his arms but the major could not hear what was being shouted. He looked back up at the crest at one of the tanks traversing the skyline, and saw that its main gun was pointing towards the bridge carrying the fuel convoy. Understanding came to him just before gun smoke spouted from its muzzle.

The 120mm HESH round screamed above the line of vehicles to strike the rearmost, the BTR at the convoy’s tail end. A second round struck the lead vehicle, another BTR and left it burning, blocking the way for the trucks.

The Leclerc tanks of the French 8^th Armoured Brigade on the high ground above the river started what would be a steady and systematic bombardment to destroy the bridgehead.

Machine gun fire cut down the running sapper and realising the position they were now in the major ran to the downstream side of the bridge, tearing off his belted equipment and steel helmet as he shouted a warning to his men. The unseen machine gunner switched fire to the running officer and the cracking sound of high velocity rounds passing close by spurred on the major who dived headlong into the frigid water. A tank round exploded the fuel truck at the head of the line now trapped by the wrecked and burning BTRs that had been the escort. Needing no further encouragement the sappers of the 43^rd’s engineer company followed their commanders lead, leaping off whichever bridge they happened to be on and swimming for it.

A short, vicious battle took place between the French and Soviet infantry backed up by the barrelled AAA sites the dug in Soviet’s would have the advantage if they had time to recover from the surprise. ZSU-23-4 self-propelled AAA vehicles turned their quadruple cannon on the French and where they had no effect upon the main battle tanks, they were devastating against the lightly armoured French AMX-10P Infantry Fighting Vehicles and the infantry debussing from them. The French infantrymen used Milan, grenades, their vehicles 21mm cannon, and sheer guts to silence the ZSUs before fixing bayonets and beginning the business of trench clearing. Meanwhile on the far bank the crews of the attack helicopters had run to their machines once it was clear the bridgehead was under ground assault. Fingers flew over switches and the machines began to hum as batteries fed current to starter motors, the humming changed to a heightening whine that preceded the sight of rotor blades beginning to turn, but oh so slowly. The Hind-D nearest the field kitchen was not surprisingly the one most likely to take to the air first. The helicopters rotor blades had just begun to move with a blur when the French finally noticed them, and turrets began to swivel in the direction of the sound of the turbines.

A tank round exploded on the landing field and the first helicopter took to the air as if startled into flight by the detonation of high explosive. It’s was the speedier of the trio of Hind’s and it rose to ten feet, pivoted in the air to line up on a gap between two clumps of trees at the edge of the landing field and adopted a nose down attitude in order to gain airspeed more quickly. It was struck by a chance shell, the 120mm HESH round severed the tail and sent the aircraft cartwheeling into the ground where it caught fire. The French armour got the range of the machines still spooling up, wrecking them before they could get off the ground.

Satisfied that all the attack helicopters were taken care of the tanks moved on, seeking fresh targets and leaving a scene where black smoke boiled up from a field occupied by twisted and ruined airframes, exploding ammunition and burning fuel.

The major of engineers didn’t fight the current; he allowed it to carry him along and struck out at an angle to the flow in a manner that would take him to the eastern shore but without draining all his limited strength. Tank rounds exploded on the sections of floating roadway where they connected to one another, or smashed into the pontoons that bore them. Any vehicles were engaged and able-bodied soldiers on the banks or upon the bridges were cut down without warning, but the only rounds landing near the men in the water were ricochet’s or just poorly aimed.

The flow took him under several bridges which bore vehicles, their movement stalled by events and the reaction of the drivers and crews were mixed. Some officers were trying to get their packets of vehicles backed up, in the hope of regaining the eastern bank and saving the vehicles and the precious stores they carried, whilst in other places the BTR, BMP and BDRMs that had been the escorts were trying to make a fight of it. As more and more enemy armour began to appear, spreading out along the western bank, an air of panic began to settle on the bridgehead. Men were ignoring their officers and abandoning the vehicles, seeking the safety of the east bank. Willingly or unwillingly more men were finding themselves in the water, as a last resort in the quest for safety or as a matter of necessity, their retreat along the bridges being cut off by enemy fire. Many disappeared below the surface never to reappear; only the steadier men and the stronger swimmers prevailed where they had still been wearing all their equipment on entering the river. Those men were able to keep their heads as the weight of ironmongery dragged them below the surface, preventing panic turning fingers into uncoordinated rubber digits as they undid buckles and freed themselves from the ballast.

Obstructions in the water became more numerous, shattered sections of bridge drifting with the current, jagged edged and some slowly sinking were also amidst the floundering soldiers. Behind the major at the Bulgarians bridges the river was on fire, burning fuel had covered half the rivers width and was spreading downriver engulfing all before it. A drifting section of pontoon bridge carrying an ammunition truck was overtaken by the flames and minutes later the truck and bridge section disintegrated.

The river carried the major around a bend, and there in front of him was the last crossing of the Red Armies bridgehead across the Elbe. There were troops and vehicles on the bridge, all moving east and quite obviously the enemy.

Some hundred or so men were in the water along with the major, and he was still over a hundred metres from the shore. Eyeing the NATO troops worriedly he redoubled his efforts to reach the bank but that clearly was not about to happen before the current had carried him to the bridge. He wasn’t alone in his fears and the tension was palpable as the first swimmer reached it. There was no gunfire from either the fighting vehicles or the men walking beside them, and the only action they took was with those men in the river who were clearly tiring and clung to the bridge when they reached it. Canadian infantrymen pulled those men from the water and left them sodden and gasping on the pontoons.

Several hundred yards further downriver the major pulled himself onto the riverbank and lay on the wet earth panting for breath. The crack of tank guns close-by announced that the Canadians had found what they had been seeking, the first of several depots of stockpiled bridging equipment that together would have kept the bridgehead in business even had twice the number of bridges been totally destroyed. Along two and a half miles of the river camouflaged dumps of bridging sections and pontoons had been established. The battalion of tanks and infantry crossed over to the eastern bank, and swung south with the intention of destroying as much of the Soviet’s equipment as possible before recrossing at the Magdeburg autobahn bridge.

Looking back along the river smoke was darkening the sky prematurely, and floating wreckage, including bodies, was thick upon the water. He tried to remember if any bridging units had accompanied the divisions driving west, it was logical that there would be which was just as well, because he was pretty certain that there hadn’t been time to move any of the spare bridging equipment to the western side of the Elbe.

The major couldn’t believe that after all the blood and sweat that had been expended just getting a foothold across this damned river, NATO could take it back with so little effort.

Fighting off despair, the engineer officer stood on legs shaky with fatigue and went in search of his men.

Events on the ground were not only being followed with the greatest interest aboard Sabre Dance Two Four, the X-Band radar returns were being beamed via satellite to SACEUR’s current locale and from there to over a dozen national headquarters. It was electronic, if not visual, confirmation of what the commanders of the various units on the ground were telling them, that the Red Army logistics train, already greatly hampered by the airborne drops, was at least for the time being severed.

For all the courage, skill at arms and élan displayed by the NATO troops, the contest of arms was not yet settled though. They had prevented the immediate reinforcement and resupply of the Soviet divisions in contact west of the Elbe, but to describe those fifteen divisions as being ‘trapped’ would be somewhat premature. Considerable fighting power existed, enough for the Soviet’s to be able to continue the advance and still turn around enough units to clear a path back to the Elbe, thereby re-establishing the supply route once new bridging equipment could be brought forward.

Before midnight the operators aboard the E-8 would see the three divisions further east detach regiments from the hunt for the NATO airborne, and send them west with all three divisions bridging units.

To the west of the Elbe it was not Regimental sized formations that were ordered to turn about though. The Russian 77^th Guards Tank Division began the business of changing its axis of advance by 180°, lumbering awkwardly around. Only by first allowing the support units to pass through the Tank and Motor Rifle Regiments on the narrow roads could the men and armoured fighting vehicles retrace their steps to the river and deal with the pitifully inadequate NATO units that had the audacity to try and trap a giant.

It was going to take time for that manoeuvre to happen, and in order to prevent the French and Canadians from preparing adequate defences, battalion sized units were receiving orders to leave positions guarding the flanks and attack the pair of NATO brigades on the Elbe.

There was nothing on the operators screens to suggest that the advance on the autobahns was hesitating, units identified by radio intercepts as being Romanian had come up on the flanks of the Czechs and were about to fall on the British and American trenches at Vormundberg. Behind those troops were two Russian divisions in the last throes of deploying and would soon be following on. They would overlap the Czech’s and Romanians, encompassing the combined frontage of the British, Dutch and US brigades. The French legionnaires of 2Rep and the Royal Marines of 44 Commando were already in receipt of artillery fire, and they were responding as the overrun 40 Commando had done, by sending out tank killing patrols rather than just hiding in their shelter bays and waiting.

Mark Venables Challenger left the small copse that hid the ammunition resupply point for his squadron, and motored back toward the ominous shape of Vormundberg. He had been listening with increasing anxiety to events on both the battalion and squadron nets, and even though it was only a five minute journey back to the reverse slopes he would have coaxed the machine into powered flight if he had been able.

His driver showed why he had been chosen to sit in the front seat of the squadron commander’s callsigns, working the six forward gears to achieve 40kpm across open ground to the single, narrow metalled road that led back to the hill, and once upon that hard surface he got the sixty-two and a half tonne vehicle up to 55kph.

The trees cast long shadows, which closed over the MBT as it entered the pines that covered the feature, its passage shook the trees lining the road and continued to do so until the road sloped upwards and forced the driver to change down.

Mark Venables gripped the edge of the hatch and ducked to avoid a branch, but he did not order the speed slackened off.

The tarmac gave way to gravel and then the Challenger slowed, turning off onto the track that would lead it to the route over the top of Vormundberg.

Pat Reed had found himself in a purely spectator position, up upon the hillside and watching the Czech 23^rd MRR coming on in contrast to the Romanians who were fast moving up on either flank. Although the 3 Company CP was close by he had not entered, it had not seemed appropriate to burden that company’s commander with his presence, so he and his party stayed outside and observed.

Without the minefield the Czech vehicles advanced confidently, the direct fire support from their fellows in lieu of a standard heavy artillery barrage.

The tank fire from the hillside slackened as the troop attached to the Argyll’s withdrew, repositioning themselves to best deal with the Romanians closing on the Scottish regiments positions. As the Czechs closed, the Hussars could no longer engage those in the fore, their barrels were at maximum depression. Those fighting vehicles their guns could still reach were engaged in the same way, a carefully aimed shot followed by a rapid relocation to another firing position. For every round fired by the Chieftains and Challengers they drew the fire of at least three enemy tanks and/or anti-tank launchers.

Tango One Two Charlie, 2 Troops problem child had started off by doing pretty well, its driver treated it with kid gloves and its kill rate had equalled that of the other Chieftain in the troop. When the troop commanders Chieftain was taken out it increased the pressure on the remaining pair of tanks in coping with the mass of targets within the troops arc of responsibility. Soon after that occurred the temperamental gearbox in One Two Charlie started again with the driver experiencing difficulty in changing from forward gears to reverse, and it was also inclined to jump out of gear at high revs.

The inevitable happened after they had destroyed yet another of the elderly T-72s, the rear gears refused to engage, leaving the vehicle exposed to retaliatory fire. The driver had done the only thing possible in the circumstances, with one track locked and the other churning forward he had the tank crabbing around through 180°, cursing the machine loudly for effect as he did so. A sabot round striking the side of the turret and careening away caused the Chieftains young loader to lose control of his bowels. The manoeuvre was nearing completion when they were hit again, this time in the engine compartment where the sabot defeated the armoured covering. The twelve-cylinder Rolls Royce engine absorbed the sabot round’s remaining energy and the crew compartment was not breached, but the tank itself was dead, with diesel from severed lines gushing over metal turned white by the sabots impact. Flames were lapping around the turret, and its crew had bailed out, making good use of the smokes cover to gain the safety of the trees. They made their way to 3 Company’s CP, on arrival they were unceremoniously bundled into the COs Warrior and sent back to the REME workshop to collect one of the replacement vehicles.

Heavy and medium shell and rocket artillery had been landing on the forward slopes for several minutes but it was not in the proportions that it had been when the battalion had been dug in at Magdeburg.

Pat Reed hated the banshee wail of the rockets; he could quite understand how grown men, trained and experienced soldiers at that, could soil themselves at the sound of one approaching.

He studied the approaching enemy, noting that despite the number of vehicles that were being destroyed there were still more than enough to go around.

Pat started at the sound of a single rifle shot close by and craned his neck to see who was wasting ammunition on armour, but what he saw was Bill and Big Stef lying within a bramble patch just downhill of his own position. The Coldstreamer was peering along the Swiftscope and spotting for the Staff Sergeant who was controlling his breathing as he took aim at his next victim. Pat unzipped his smock and fished out his self-focussing binoculars, which he raised to his eyes, looking in the direction the sniper appeared to be aiming. Several vehicles flitted across his view, all had their hatches firmly shut but then he saw a T-80 with additional antennae marking it as a command tank, and it had an open lid. The top of a head was just visible and he couldn’t figure how Bill could consider such an impossible shot to be viable, but then the tank slowed slightly and the front end dipped down into a wide crater, exposing more of the cranium to view. The crack of the shot made him start again but his eyes were on the top of the Soviet tankers head when the 7.62 round entered it, splashing the inside of the hatch cover with gore.

Pat took his eyes from the binoculars to look down at the snipers in amazement, such an incredible shot deserved some words at the very least, but Stef had already spotted another target and Bill, the last victim forgotten already, was moving his body around slightly, re-setting the placement of elbows and the line of his torso so that the weapon would point naturally at the fresh target.

Pat hunted for the snipers prey, but it was not a company or battalion commander this time.

Peering over the cover of a low bank, a young Czech infantry lieutenant looked for a firing position closer to NATO lines than the one they currently occupied. The BTR-60 he had been riding in had been knocked out but he had been lucky enough to escape along with three of his riflemen. A conscientious officer, he had gathered up other stray troops hiding in ditches amongst whom were numbered two AT-3 Sagger crews, and he had physically dragged these men from hiding places and put them to doing what they had been intended to, attacking the NATO armour. Crewmen and infantrymen who had escaped unscathed, or just a little bit singed in one or two cases from knocked out tanks and fighting vehicles, now became either the security for the Sagger crews, or the mules that carried the reloads. Neither of the anti-tank crews had scored hits yet, but they were contributing considerably to the British Hussars discomfort.

The lieutenant saw a likely spot but before he could indicate it to his men he was forced to roll to one side to avoid being crushed.

Through his sight Bill observed a BMP-3 almost run over the form he had already tagged as being a leader, if not an officer. He let the vehicle pass and lay quite relaxed, as the leader of the group Stef had directed him to send a rifle squad out of cover and across open ground. These men were not yet of any great importance to him and he let them go on unhindered, and it was only after they had dropped into fresh cover that he pulled the rifle butt into his shoulder just that little bit more firmly. The Sagger crews came next, although not both at once and he allowed the first trio to leave cover, burdened down with sights, launcher and a pair of missiles they moved much more slowly than the infantry squad had. Once they were twenty feet from the bank the second crew hauled themselves into view. The second crew was twelve feet from the bank before Bill fired; he worked the bolt, aimed, fired again and again worked the bolt. Six shots rang out with barely over two seconds between each as he first killed the rearmost man before working forwards. The first Sagger crew had still been on their feet, oblivious to the danger they were in and unaware that the second crew were lying sprawled in the mud behind them when Bill shot their gunner. A cry of alarm alerted the leading man who had looked back to see one of his mates face down and the other with a look of surprise on his face. That surprise was turned briefly to shock when Bill’s fifth round made a small hole in his helmet, just level with his forehead. The leading man did not have time to begin the dive for the ground that his brain had told him was vital for survival, Bill’s last round punched through his sternum and carried on through his chest to exit out the small of his back.

It was with horrified awe that 1CG’s commanding officer regarded the sniper, but the staff sergeant was oblivious of the attention, focused as he was on his next target.

Aghast at the way his anti-tank crews had been killed to a man it took the lieutenant a moment to collect his thoughts and decide on his next course of action. His most effective weapons were lying in the mud between himself and the next position he had chosen, and clearly those weapons must be recovered. Acutely aware of the attention of an enemy sniper on this piece of the battlefield he raised his head above the level of the bank for one brief look. No shot rang out and he was able to judge that the wind had been in his face, so although he could not throw a smoke grenade as far as the first crews launcher, someone in the infantry squad across the way, could.

Spread out along the bank, lying on their stomachs, were the men he had designated the role of ammunition carriers, but even though the nearest was only four feet behind him, when he looked back at them he had to shout, loudly, to attract their attention as they seemed reluctant to make eye contact with him.

“Men, make sure you’ve a hand free because we are going to work in pairs.”

Glances were exchanged amongst the men but the young officer continued unabated.

“We are going to have the cover of smoke, and as soon as it has reached this bank you all follow me. When we get to the first sight unit or launcher, the nearest two men grab it and carry on running. We will do the same for all the sights and launchers, ok?”

After a moment’s hesitation one of the men spoke what was on all of their minds.

“Well actually sir, that sniper is a bit bloody deadly…is this really a good idea?”

The officer huffed in exasperation.

“I just said that we would have smoke cover, didn’t I? He can’t shoot what he can’t see, so get set now because we go when the smoke arrives.”

He gave quick instructions to the NCO in charge of the rifle squad by radio and then readied himself, his fingers dug into the soft earth for leverage and one knee drawn up as he stared fixedly up at the lip of the bank.

Bill had lain for long moments with his sights on the exact spot that he had last seen the leader/officer, his breathing was controlled as Stef told him a smoke grenade had gone off upwind of his aiming point. When the smoke appeared at the edge of his sight picture he took up the first pressure on the trigger and allowed his last breath to slowly escape. He was at the bottom of the breathing cycle as the man-made fog flowed across the bank, and he gentle squeezed, firing without seeing a target and absorbing the kick of the butt into his shoulder. Ejecting the spent case and jacking a fresh round into the chamber he then remained perfectly still, allowing the sights to settle back onto the same spot and waited.

It took over a minute for the grenades smoke to clear, drifting eastwards with the breeze it thinned first to reveal the first two crews with all their equipment, still lying in the mud where they had last been seen. As the smoke cleared downwind it revealed a single motionless figure slumped across the banks lip. Bill lay there for several minutes in the aim, but none of the ammunition bearers appeared.

Pat was not witness to the demise of the Czech officer, the first enemy vehicles had reached 3 Company’s forward positions and were driving through 7 Platoon and 8 Platoon apparently unchallenged. The occupants of the trenches were out of sight, awaiting the enemy fighting vehicles presenting their most vulnerable side.

On the reverse slope a fire mission from 3 Companies CP was received by 2 Section, Mortar Platoon, and was quickly converted into a language the No. 1s understood.

“Charge three, elevation eleven zero zero, bearing seventeen thirty…two rounds smoke, normal fire!”

A T-90, Four BTR-60s, two BTR-70s and a pair of T-72 tanks penetrated the platoon positions, driving through toward the ground held by the in-depth platoon. From the firing ports along the sides of the BTRs the troops inside the vehicles kept up a sustained barrage of small arms fire, but there were no NATO troops visible.

Although Pat and the company commanders had covered this eventuality at the O Groups, he still felt uneasy watching enemy fighting vehicles traversing his lines uncontested.

The smoke began to land beyond the platoon positions; it was not a thick screen, not as thick as the screen used earlier to cause the pile-up at the sunken lane, but enough to provide some cover to 7 and 8 Platoons 94mm men.

Shrewd US Paratroopers and British Guardsmen threw smoke, adding a little more cover before they stood up in their firing bays, exposing their backs to the second line of Soviet vehicles.

Sixteen men stood and lifted the bulky weapons onto their shoulders, two were cut down almost immediately by automatic fire coming from firing ports in the BTRs rear troop doors, and one was decapitated by a 23mm cannon shell from the approaching second line.

It had proved difficult for the section and platoon commanders to coordinate and as such there was some duplication effort.

A single 94mm anti-tank round was quite able to destroy a BTR, as indeed the manufacturers claimed it was all that was required to kill any modern main battle tank, but experience had taught the men who used the weapons to fire in salvo’s of at least two rockets be sure of knocking out even a T-72.

Both T-72s were hit several times and left stopped and burning, as were five of the BTRs, but the T-90 was hit only once by a hastily aimed shot that hit a track and brought it to a jerky halt without killing it. The surviving BTR-70 was completely overlooked, which gave its commander an insight into their predicament. The infantry section de-bussed, coming out fighting and taking cover in shell craters, of which there was no shortage.

For a few minutes there was an island of resistance within the battalion lines, formed by the BTR, its infantry section, and the crippled tank. Like a proud old bull surrounded by a pride of lions the Czech’s kept the British and Americans at bay for a time, but it couldn’t last.

Milan rounds fired from 9 Platoon positions, 3 Company’s in-depth platoon, took out the both the BTR and the tank whilst 51mm light mortars and L79 grenade launchers pummelled the Czech infantrymen with HE. Shell craters do not offer the same protection as a well dug trench and when 9 Platoon men came forward they found no resistance, just three wounded men and seven very dead ones.

Mark Venables Challenger crested the hill in time to see the second line of Czech vehicles make the same error as the first line.

Keeping infantry inside vehicles only works if your enemy very obligingly present themselves to be shot at from the vehicles ports.

The 23^rd MRRs commander watched his second line enter the NATO positions and then smoke obscured his view. On the radio he heard the same shouts of alarm as had come from his leading element, the hammer of automatic weapons drowning out the words and then they too went off the air.

They were under the guns of the NATO tanks now, the Chieftains and Challengers on the hillside above them no longer had any living targets to engage but his regiment now consisted of ten tanks, nineteen BTRs and a handful of AAA vehicles, and that included his own command group vehicles. Not enough to punch their way through the NATO troops holding the high ground between themselves and the autobahns but enough to perhaps establish a foothold, a crack in the NATO line that others could widen.

The NATO troops in the forward trenches were now firing directly at the approaching vehicles, the 94mm LAWs and Milan’s killing a T-80 and a further three BTRs.

Taking up his radio handset again he ordered his infantry to debus at 100m from the trenches and fight through the first positions on foot, the tanks and BTRs would provide the gunfire support.

His own tank was travelling behind a T-90 and he ordered them to speed up and close the gap with the last of his regiment, and the T-90 duly accelerated but then came to a crashing halt amid a welter of smoke and flame. The commander’s driver swerved to avoid it, and they themselves were hit on top of the engine deck by a TOW missile fired from a Lynx helicopter. The commander was thrown sideways, the force of the impact smashing his face into the RT set and he saw stars for a moment. His gunner brought him back to reality, shaking his shoulders and shouting that they had to get out. His face felt strange and he caught sight of his reflection in the glass covering the radios dials. His nose had a crooked look about it and the lower half of his face was scarlet and shiny with blood. He reached up and threw open the hatch, pulling himself half way out when they were hit again, this time on the turret. He screamed with the incredible pain as he was engulfed in a column of flame that propelled him out of the stricken tank and flinging him twelve feet from it, right in the path of his command groups fast moving ZSU-23-4.

Pat Reed watched the enemy vehicles brake to a halt and disgorge infantry, catching the defenders on the hop as they had again taken refuge in the shelter bays in the expectation of the next line of enemy following the same tactics as the previous ones. The Czech’s grenaded three of the trenches, all which were sited to dominate an area of dead ground before the guardsmen and paratroopers realised their error. The Czech’s thereby had a toehold to work from. By chance rather than by design the Czechs had their first success in 8 Platoons territory, which slightly overlooked the neighbouring positions in 7 Platoon.

Ownership of the dead ground allowed the Czechs to corral their remaining vehicles in relative safety, tucked out of sight away from 3 Company’s anti-tank assets.

The platoon commander of 8 Platoon led a hastily put together counter attack to regain the three trenches, less than five minutes later, and shot through both legs, his platoon sergeant dragged him back to his trench, unceremoniously towing him over the muddy ground by the yoke of his webbing as high velocity rounds cracked past them.

From his viewing point Pat watched the action, his stomach knotting at the sight of the bodies left in the open, which highlighted the attacks failure.

3 Company’s commander immediately ordered another counter attack, this time by 9 Platoon with 8 and 7 providing the fire support, but before it could get started the Czechs expanded on their success by attacking and taking a further four of the 8 Platoon fighting positions.

When the 3 Company counter attack did go in it got off to a bad start because the Czechs were now using the captured positions to fire down onto 7 Platoon, so in effect 9 Platoon had only a sections worth of fire support coming from what was left of 8 Platoon.

The Czechs brought forward two of their remaining tanks and a trio of BTRs firing at ranges of less than a hundred and fifty metres at the skirmishing 9 Platoon. The attack was defeated; worse, it had inflicted losses upon 3 Company that brought its ability to hold its remaining territory into serious doubt.

Sergeant Higgins crawled forward and tapped his commanding officer on the shoulder, pointing off to the left and right where the first of the Romanian regiments were now only 600m from the forward NATO positions on Vormundberg’s lower slopes and just encountering the largely intact minefields before the Light Infantry and the Highlanders positions. The exhaust trails of anti-tank missiles crisscrossed the battlefield and balls of flame marked their terminus. The Soviet tanks fired on the move and Pat could see the glaring differences between the T-80 and T-90 tanks as opposed to the T-72 when they fired. The self-stabilising guns of the newer tanks pointing unwaveringly at targets despite the rollercoaster drive, and the more numerous, elderly T-72s who’s fire had to be for effect only, anything to give the plough tanks a better chance at clearing paths through the minefields.

Lowering his binoculars he edged himself forward out of the shell crater and downhill a few yards in order to get a better look at the ground between 9 Platoon and the piece of hillside he was laying on. It was clear to him that any further attempt to retake the captured positions would be to reinforce defeat, the remnants of 8 Platoon had to pull back and merge with 9 Platoon, and with that done they must provide covering fire that 7 Platoon could withdraw under to then establish a fresh position just in front of 3 Company’s CP. He did not have to offer advice though; the company commander gave Major Popham a sitrep before requesting artillery pound on the lost positions as additional cover for 7 and 8 Platoon’s withdrawal. It took less than a minute for Zero to call up Three Nine with the result of his request; time of arrival of the first round would be eighteen seconds from the time of the present transmission.

When Pats ears picked up the drone of approaching shells he raised his binoculars, resting on his elbows and stared at the intended target area, but the drone changed to the nerve-jarring shriek that informed those that heard it that they were the target. The ground leapt beneath him, pummelling the air from his lungs again and again and he was aware that he was screaming out loud with fear. One shell, landing closer than the rest, lifted him and deposited in a heap further down the hillside. The world suddenly became silent and even the debris from the still falling shells was landing noiselessly all around him.

Strong hands grabbed him and pulled him under the cover of a slight overhang, Stef was looking into his face and he could see his mouth working but either no words were coming out or the shelling had deafened him. Eventually the ground stopped trembling and the silence was replaced by a high-pitched tone in his ears.

Pat pulled himself to his feet, his head still ringing, and with Bill and Stef assisting him he scrambled unsteadily up the slope to where he had been previously. He gaped at the damage and destruction that had been wrought in so short a time. Where 3 Company’s command post had been was now just a hole in the ground, the logs that had helped support its sandbag roof were now splinted and charred, scattered about the immediate area along with shredded sandbags and remains that no longer resembled anything human. Back along the track the Defence Platoons Warrior was lying on its side and burning furiously but there was no sign of the men who had travelled here with him. The two shell craters in which they had been taking cover were now joined together into one elongated hole. All that remained was a Kevlar helmet hanging by a strap from the only remaining limb attached to a still standing but mortally wounded pine tree, a cloth name tape neatly sown to the DPM cover identified the owner simply as ‘Higgins’.

The noise in his ears rose in pitch so as to be excruciatingly painful but then it faded, and he could hear the crackle of flames nearby and the crack of tank guns beyond. He flinched at the sound of shells passing overhead, and their detonations on the 8 Platoon positions, which were now in the hands of the enemy.

Turning to the two snipers he gestured at the tree-covered hillside.

“Perhaps we didn’t get all of those infiltrators of theirs, I want you two to get up there and track them down…” his voiced petered out because both the snipers were shaking their heads.

“That wasn’t Soviet artillery that did this sir, it was our own.”

Pat looked confused; not quite grasping what was being said.

“Someone fucked up sir…we got through to the battalion CP and got the guns to adjust their fire, but it was our one five fives that did this.”

There was nothing else really to say, except perhaps that sometimes shit happens in war, so the snipers left him then, finding a spot for themselves to the right of where the CP had been so that they could engage anyone attempting to hinder the 3 Company platoons withdrawal.

Pat looked over at the remains of the CP, thinking that whoever had been responsible had well and truly paid for that mistake, but he was now without a company commander or a headquarters staff for 3 Company. It was a cold and clinical way of regarding the death of six of his men in the CP and the ten from Defence Platoon, but grief was an indulgence that must wait.

4 Company were engaging the left flank of the Romanian 112^th MRR, the enemy had approached boldly enough up to the point where the sunken lane cut across their axis of advance. The defile was now cluttered with the wreckage of Czech armoured vehicles, many still burning, and the Romanians found themselves in the same position as the 23^rd MRR had been at that point. Only a handful of places allowed the vehicles to pass across to the fields on NATO’s side of the lane, and the smoke from the Czech vehicles were proving a double-edged sword. It shielded the vehicles on the eastern side from view, but command and control went out of the window. In dribs and drabs the fighting vehicles negotiated the gaps in the lane and attempted to reform in their original unit formations on the far side, where there was no cover that would allow that to happen.

The Hussar’s 1 Troop, the helicopter gunships and the Coldstreamers Milan crews selected, and then destroyed, targets with ease until the Romanians in desperation renewed their charge.

4 Company’s lines weren’t penetrated, the last vehicle of that particular wave was despatched at about the same time as half a dozen 152mm shells landed just west of the lane, delivering a smoke screen that was too thin and too late.

Jim Popham had control of the battalion well in hand and there were no problems on the left of the battalion, but command of 3 Company was another matter.

The young officers commanding the company’s three platoons were unsuitable candidates for command of a company, two were too inexperienced and the third was badly wounded. Pat called the battalion CP and ordered his Adjutant to grab a competent radio operator and come forward in a Warrior to take command of the company before changing to the 3 Company net. According to 9 Platoons commander his sergeant was calling in adjustments to the artillery fire and eleven survivors of 8 Platoon, four of them wounded, had made it out and into his location. The seven able bodied had been amalgamated into his call sign and the wounded were being evacuated uphill to where Pat now was. That at least was good news, and he went on to report that although 7 Platoon had been pinned in their trenches, the properly adjusted fires had allowed them time to booby-trap their trenches before withdrawing, and they were now moving to the rear of 9 Platoon in preparation to dig in.

Pat made his way forward and met 7 Platoon; toiling under the burden of not just their own personal kit but boxes of link and extra grenades, 51mm rounds, spare Milan rounds and 94mm LAWs. It was the platoons cache of spare ammunition and all too precious to be abandoned or destroyed in place. The quarried obstacle was drawing curses and the heavy stores had to be passed up, hand over hand, before they could negotiate it, but the men worked together well as a team and it was soon accomplished.

A couple of months before Pat could never have conceived of fully functioning platoons made up of his guardsmen and American paratroopers, the mind sets for one thing were almost alien to one another, and the basic tactics that were second nature to these men of different army’s had seemed at odds. Yet here he was looking at Yorkshiremen and Texans, Geordies and Californians who seemed joined at the hip.

Pat’s orders were simply for them to dig in, tie in again with the Argyll’s platoon on their right and have it all completed ten minutes ago, if not sooner. They got on with it, without undue questions and the very minimum of fuss, which allowed Pat to tag on behind the wounded as he made his way back up slope in the failing light to where Timothy had now arrived to assume command. Below him the artillery fires shifted from the overrun positions to further east, where the next formation of enemy vehicles had appeared. Pat paused for a moment, watching the enemy tanks spilling over the edge of the hill across the valley, driving hard for the valleys floor. There were just so damn many of them that it seemed for every Soviet vehicle they killed another ten appeared in its place. He thought briefly of the battalion his son was attached to, and thanked God that the Soviet’s had forced their crossing to the south of the Light Infantry positions. He had enough concerns without having to worry about his son’s safety too.

The ex-Adjutant, and now OC 3 Company, extended a hand and pulled Pat up the last couple of feet onto level ground.

“Thank you Timothy, and apology’s for dragging you out here but I needed someone with more seasoning than the company subalterns.”

Tim had taken stock of the situation and his radio operator was already ensconced in the remains of the CP.

“I’m using this sir.” Timothy told his CO.

“It may have no top cover but it is at least below ground level, and of course one dearly hopes that lightning will not strike twice.”

Pat nodded his acceptance.

“It’s your company now so you do what you must?” The more junior officer shrugged and then after a moment he spoke.

“You realise sir that this is now the weak link in the line, the Hussars can only support us for so long before Soviet infantry start taking them out. I don’t have the manpower left to defend them, and we cannot hope to hold out against anything larger than an APC company unsupported?”

“I know that Timothy, and I want you to consider pulling 9 Platoon back level with 7 when their position becomes untenable…it will mean abandoning everything except their personal weapons and fighting order, they couldn’t possible pull out in time and haul all that stuff up here.”

Timothy nodded his agreement and Pat indicated the little spur of ridge they were on.

“Whatever happens, you have to hold here…no more withdrawal beyond here or they will roll up 4 Company from the flank. I am going to pull a couple of men from each section in 1 and 2 Company and form a quick reaction force in Warriors. Jim Popham will command it and I will have him work his way into the trees next to the perimeter with the Argyll’s, so shout when you are being most closely pressed and he will hit them in their flank, hopefully breaking their attack.” The location in question was on the same contour as the CP and the flattish ground that connected the two places should make for a quick passage along the side of the hill by the vehicles.

There was just enough light for Pat to see his former adjutant grin.

“Don’t worry sir, we’ll play the anvil to Jim’s hammer and kick the bastards back down the hill.” With that he hurried down the slope to speak with his platoon commanders before the next enemy formation arrived, pausing only to give a cheerful wave before disappearing into the shadows.

Pat did not know it, but it was the last time he would ever see Timothy alive.

To the rear of Vormundberg, the 8 and 16 tonne Bedford’s of the Hussar’s logistical support packed up and left the copse, moving forward to the reverse slopes on the orders of Major Venables. In the past two hours the Hussar’s squadron had lost a third of their number which made the time spent reloading, and therefore out of action, a critical factor in the defence.

Mark did not know what had happened to the Soviet artillery, he was just glad that it had, because he could now risk moving the pallet loads of main gun rounds into what had previously been one of the enemy gunners main target areas.

On arriving back on the forward slopes he had immediately amalgamated the remnants of No.2 and 3 Troop before sending One Three Bravo to reload.

There was no shortage of prepared firing positions but he preferred to stay as close as possible to the battalions centre, and so chose to sit behind cover and wait for the Romanian 93^rd Tank Regiment to come within range. He sat on top of the turret where he could look across the valley, and he tried to ignore the stink of burnt rubber from the charred hulk of One Two Charlie, which sat off to his right with flames still feeding upon it.

Colonel Lužar had received radio orders to disengage all but two companies from the intermittent, yet ordnance-consuming contacts that had begun in the late afternoon. He was to turn around the greater part of his command, prepare to advance to contact back towards the bridgehead, and he had to have it done within an hour. It seemed unreal at first and he had felt the need to ask for clarification not once, but twice.

He had naturally requested an RV with his First Battalion in order to reunite his regiment, along with yet another request for fuel. The first request was rejected out of hand but the second was granted, so he asked for an ammunition replen too, and that was also granted.

He worried for the men he had to leave behind but as night had fallen and the regiment moved out he was consoled with the thought that he had done what he could. He had deliberately selected one of the best company’s in the regiment for the least defensible area of the perimeter and had replaced the commander of the second company with his steadiest company commander. It was rough on the replaced man but Lužar wasn’t running for the title of ‘Most Popular’.

The location given for their rendezvous with the fuel and ammunition trucks was a firebreak in a forestry block, which happened to be half a kilometre from the regiment’s current gun line. The commander of the regiment’s battery of Akatsia 152mm howitzers was there to meet the regimental commanders’ call sign when it arrived. Lužar clambered down to greet the officer but it had quickly become clear that it was not a social call. They strolled to a place out of earshot of the rest of the troops and his officer then gave the real reason for his presence.

“Colonel, my guns are down to their last forty rounds per barrel and the fuel situation has become worrisome. I wouldn’t mind if I could get a straight answer from the logisticians as to what the problem is, but I either get bullshit or told it is none of my concern.” It was too dark to see his officer’s face but from his tone Colonel Lužar assumed that he had been having a frustrating time of it.

“How the hell can they say it is none of my concern? I’m telling you sir if I had the rounds to spare I’d lob a few in their direction!”

The shortage of both fuel and ammunition for the battery was a serious issue, as they were the primary source of artillery fire support for not just the battalion and a half that he had now, but also for the two companies attempting to cover a regimental sized frontage back on the perimeter.

Something serious had gone awry, he was certain of that now, but what he could not do was confide his opinions to his officers and men.

The colonel was able only to promise that he would speak with the commander of the supply unit that was serving them, and try to extract a few gallons for the battery’s self-propelled guns and he took his leaving of the artilleryman. It occurred to him that these supply troops may well have information for him too, that they could indeed know the whereabouts of First Battalion. They may be on detached duty but they were still his men and he could at least find where they were operating, and perhaps even the radio frequencies they were using in order to listen into their fortunes.

At the supply unit commander’s vehicle he found the officer constrained by the presence of a colonel of field police who was there to thwart the unauthorised issue of fuel, ammunition or the answers Lužar wanted, but his driver had been more forthcoming. They had fuelled First Battalion after its detachment from the rest of the regiment and the battalion was supposed to have RV’d with them again two hours before, but had never shown up.

The driver confirmed that they had tried and failed to make radio contact and he supplied the frequencies to Colonel Lužar who’d uttered his thanks and left.

His own driver and his gunner were sat on top of the turret looking grim, and as he climbed up to join them he found out why.

“You two look like you are about to open a vein each…what is it now?”

The enlisted men exchanged glances and then his driver spoke

“Fuel sir…”

“Ammunition sir.” his gunner interrupted, pausing only to shrug an apology to his crewmate.

“We haven’t used that much in the way of main gun rounds but others have, and they didn’t get full racks from the replen sir, just four rounds each.”

Keeping his features neutral Lužar gestured to his driver to speak, although he knew he wouldn’t like what he was about to be told.

“The fuel trucks aren’t topping anyone’s tanks off sir, they didn’t fill us up they’re just ensuring we have three quarters of a tank each. It’s like the bastards are paying for the stuff out of their own pockets.”

It was worse than he’d thought if they hadn’t the wherewithal to fully replenish the force they were counting on to put right the wrongs. It had to be the logistics, he reasoned, somehow NATO had compromised the supply lines.

It took time for the ammunition and fuel trucks to visit every remaining vehicle in the regiment. In daylight it was a time consuming business, but at night under tactical conditions of absolutely no naked light to assist the process it was a drawn out process. Eventually of course the replenishment was completed and they moved out of the woods and into open countryside.

According to Colonel Lužar’s reckoning they had eighteen miles to cover before reaching the bridgehead, and a tank could drink a lot of fuel covering that distance, so it came as something of a surprise to his battalion and company commanders when he did not choose to rely on a flank guard and forward screen to provide security for the bulk of the regiment so it could use the more fuel economical roads.

43^rd MRR moved off the road and into arrowhead formation behind a screen of reconnaissance vehicles and before long everyone from Lieutenant Colonels to lowly private soldiers had caught on to their regimental commanders’ mood. They moved in expectation of making contact with the enemy at any time, be it in the shape of a meeting engagement or a prepared defence.

The first indication of what they were up against came half an hour later, the recce screen called up with a sitrep and a map reference that Lužar ordered his driver to make for.

The dark shapes on fire damaged tarmac were all that remained of a convoy of over forty vehicles and Lužar dismounted in order to better investigate. There were no signs of the myriad cratering that would have accompanied an attack using cluster bomb units; a force had ambushed these vehicles on the ground he concluded.

He returned to his vehicle and they continued onwards until coming upon another convoy to have fallen to direct fire from the ground. The vehicles were all burnt out, carrying the scars of bullet and shell but not of the artillery or aerial variety. Shell craters were few. It was the first of many such scenes. More convoys, artillery gun lines, logistics dumps and AAA sites had also fallen victim and the 43^rd MRR passed them all.

At ten miles back from the bridgehead they found the first signs of enemy casualties, a burnt out Leopard tank stood at the edge of a turnip field whilst extending away from it into the distance were its killers. They were also dead, killed by the Canadians heavier main gun that would have sent projectiles through their light armour with ease.

Weight of numbers had given the Soviet’s a costly victory; accounting for that Leopard, one other and also a trio of TOW equipped vehicles.

It was difficult for Colonel Lužar to describe the emotions he was feeling as he regarded the corpses of BTRs, their crews, and the light tanks that were so easily recognisable due to their flat-topped turrets.

43^rd Motor Rifle Regiment had found its missing battalion.

Regimental reconnaissance elements had crossed through the field several minutes before Colonel Lužar and his command group arrived. The armoured recce vehicles leapfrogged forward, moving quickly and efficiently to the next piece of cover, to await the command to resume the advance.

In perfect cover, the Canadian’s of the 2^nd Mechanised Brigade watched the specialist reconnaissance BTRs cautious movements, and in particular they noted where they disappeared into cover upon crossing the turnip field.

Several minutes went by without further movement. Five minutes became twenty.

“Hello Six Nine, this is Nine, radio check, over?”

2Lt Ferguson was peering down a Swiftscope, a scope previously sited by his platoon sergeant who had ensured the lens was in deep shadow before he had allowed the officer to use it.

The call was repeated twice before a slightly testy note appeared in the voice.

“Hello Six Nine, this is Nine, radio check, over?”

A lance corporal nudged the young officer.

“That means you, sir!” he hissed.

“Er, Six Nine okay thanks…over.” 2Lt Ferguson saw the NCO shake his head in disbelief, and he cringed inwardly at having screwed up basic voice procedure, and to the commanding officer, of all people.

There was a pause at the other end as the CO wished down a plague of boils upon all ‘subbies’.

“Nine okay, sitrep over?”

“Six Nine, no movement, no movement at all, over…oh hang on, I can see someone.”

A single figure had appeared, striding across the field. He was wearing camouflage clothing just as soiled and muddy as the concealed Canadians wore, but his steel helmet and uniform was that of the enemy.

Young Ferguson could see him in quite sharp detail through the scope. He walked unconcernedly, empty handed, apparently unarmed, and also in need of a shave and a few square meals.

Six hundred metres distant from Ferguson, the enemy soldier stopped walking but did not take cover; he instead extracted cigarettes from a breast pocket and lit up, staring across at the woodland where the hidden Canadians waited.

With his attention on the lone soldier, Lt Ferguson all but missed the objects flying outwards from the same cover the BTRs had moved into. Smoke belched out, creating a dense screen that hid the enemy vehicles and the lone soldier. The Canadians heard the sound of the eight wheelers reversing.

A breeze carried away the smoke to reveal the enemy soldier once more, and behind him could be glimpsed one of the BTRs, still backing away.

Colonel Lužar finished his cigarette and sent it spinning away with a flick of a finger. He unzipped his smock, pulling out a soft, cloth, uniform cap bearing his regiments badge proudly, at which point he removed his helmet.

Ferguson watched the hatless soldier regard it for a moment, and then to his surprise toss it casually aside.

Pulling the old uniform cap into place, Leo Lužar turned his back on an enemy he knew was out there somewhere, and walked back the way he had come.

Henry Shaw had become the sounding board for a fair percentage of those in the situation room, as the battle for Germany developed. He maintained a poker face as events across the Atlantic were depicted on the big screen, yet still there were those who would look from the screen to his face to try and divine from his expression how good or bad things were going. Surely they couldn’t have thought everything was rosy, when air raids got through and dropped two of the main road bridges across the Rhine and the Weser that 4 Corps was reliant upon to get to the front?

It wasn’t all bad news; the data stream from JSTARS was showing a comprehensively beaten Romanian battalion backing away from the British 2^nd Battalion Light Infantry, thanks to damn good liaison and teamwork between all the Arms involved, not just that battalion of infantry.

Initially the artillery, tanks, and the attached Lynx and Apache helicopters had allowed the Romanians of the 112^th Motor Rifle Regiments tank battalion to cross the valley floor unhindered by themselves, whilst the battered but still defiant parachute companies of the French 2REP, who were dug in to the front of the Brits, had held the enemy’s attention. 112^th MRR thought they were about to bulldozer the thin line of legionnaires that had been stinging them ever since they had crossed the crest of the east side of the valley. However, at 2000m the British had unleashed a textbook perfect TOT, with every weapon they possessed which had the range. The Romanians ran into a wall of fire from Milan, Hellfire, TOW, 120mm sabot and 155mm improved munitions.

The Legions parachute companies had successfully withdrawn through the Light Infantry and sixty percent of 112^th’s tank company had been destroyed, the remainder were fleeing and had become entangled with the battalion following on, spoiling the momentum of that units attack and providing the defenders with a target rich environment of armoured fighting vehicles milling about in confusion.

Further east the Canadian and French brigades had done well too, despite some of the critical comments coming from armchair warriors in this very room.

It was perfectly true that looking at the information currently available they could indeed have ranged further west towards the front and destroyed more artillery lines, fuel and ammunition dumps. However, the commanders of those two units did not have the benefit of digitally enhanced hindsight that their critics enjoyed. The commanders on the ground had to take a decision on how far their raiding parties could stretch their luck, before they ran into an armoured force and not just middle aged reservists doling out rations and rounds.

Henry’s job today, when he wasn’t answering questions from the President, was not to look concerned.

“General Shaw?”

Henry turned from the board and saw that the President was stood away from the main knot of onlookers and had a coffee mug in both hands. There was presently no sign of his physician.

He apparently wanted a word, and in comparative privacy too.

“Mr President?”

“It’s looking better, don’t you think?…I mean those divisions are totally cut off, boxed in on two sides and 4 Corps was been slowed but not stopped?”

“They can still win, sir.”

The President was silent and in thought for a long moment, but he made no attempt to offer the spare mug to Henry.

“By this time tomorrow sir our airborne operation will have begun to degenerate into guerrilla warfare as the paratroops run short of ammunition and anti-tank weapons in particular.”

The President winced and Henry was unsure whether it was his words as much as the heat of the coffee mugs burning the President’s hand. He relieved the President of one mug and smiled when he saw the printing and logo on the side. However, after taking a sip he continued.

“The French and Canadians at the river have only a small ammunition and fuel reserve. The Soviet’s won’t have to get creative when they attack them either, there will be no elaborate pincer moves to pin them in place because there is no need, the Elbe is doing that for them anyway. So you see Mr President, it all comes down to Vormundberg and how long they can hold because the centre of that line is creaking under the strain.”

The President looked at the plasma screen and the unit symbols where Henry had described.

The President raised his mug in salute; his was a high quality piece of pottery with the crest of the 82^nd Airborne upon it.

Henry raised his own mug and clinked it against his commander-in-chiefs, but not too hard because his own was cracked and chipped, a cheap tourist souvenir that someone had probably bought on holiday in London. Henry drank from it proudly though, and looked again at the cheesy depiction on the side, of a soldier in a red tunic and wearing a bearskin complete with red plume.

An energy saving journey, at sometimes painfully slow speeds, had turned a not unpleasant one hour and ten minute train ride from Colchester to London’s Liverpool Street into one of purgatory, at three and a half hours duration.

Ray Tessler alighted carefully as he was far from ‘mended’ and had refused to take any of the offered seats on that overcrowded carriage his travel warrant permitted him to use. Being jostled, albeit it accidentally, had been character building in the extreme.

He was wearing new kit, and it gave off that slightly oniony odour of moth repellent that the MOD treats its uniforms with.

In addition to his aches and pains, Ray was feeling not a little pent up anger.

Held in military custody without charge, he had been questioned on whether or not he had overheard anything that would be of interest to a prosecution counsel in a war crimes trial.

Ray had answered all the questions truthfully. Sorry, but he had not help them. He had not heard anything about anti-personnel mines or prisoners being shot. However, if they would care to ask some questions that would be of interest to a defence counsel?

Ray was issued with new kit and a travel warrant before being sent on his way. He would not be returning to 1CG, he was now a member of 2CG. The 2^nd Battalion was at full strength but he had four days leave before reporting for duty. There was a parting shot though, under no circumstances was he to contact anyone within 1CG and he was not to say a word about the questions he had been asked. To do so would tantamount to conspiracy, and grounds for immediate arrest. Did he understand?

Yes, Ray had assured them, he understood completely.

Ray found a pay phone and made a call.

“Hello, Mrs Reed? My name is Ray Tessler, Company Sergeant Major Tessler, and I need to speak to you urgently.”

For the third time in an hour Richard Dewar’s force slowly but carefully sank down into a firing positions as the sounds of other troops reached them on the wind.

During their infiltration of this most sensitive of regions of the People’s Republic of China he had been concerned at the lack of activity on the ground, as if they had known the combined US/UK force was coming, and had a trap waiting.

What Major Dewar had not known was that the same inclement weather that had for a time grounded the helicopters the PRC were using, had also caught the ground troops without arctic clothing and equipment.

With the arrival of arctic standard lubricants for the aircraft there also came skis, equipment and clothing, bringing a resumption of foot patrolling.

By sheer good fortune the snowfall had resumed before the withdrawing M&AWC had reached the top of the avalanche site, heavy enough for them to be able hear and not see a helicopter land and take off at a spot further along the gully.

Richard had correctly deduced that something heavier than the light reconnaissance machines was putting troops on the ground, reducing the time it would take to resume normal coverage of the security forces area of responsibility because of the snow.

The problem of enemy troops coming across the tracks left in the snow by the American and British troops had been covered without successful resolution in the planning stages. One of the proposals had been for the combined force to wear boots that copied the tread of those issued to the People’s Liberation Army, but all of the troops had vetoed that one. With two possible exceptions the British and US personnel all had feet much larger than the Asiatic norms, and besides which no one wanted to walk sixty-eight miles across mountains in brand new boots, the ones they had were broken in and fitted just fine, but thank you for asking anyway!

Richard lay in the snow now alerted by the sound of metal on rock, after which had followed fragmentary snippets of Cantonese, including laughter.

It was something of a relief to Richard, confirming the drop of troops in the area had nothing to do with them, they had not been compromised. A hunter force would hardly be talking, let alone joking around, if they were seeking an insurgent force or saboteurs.

Richard waited for ten minutes after the last sound of the enemy patrol had faded before resuming their march.

With Sergeant McCormack bringing up rear, Richard pushed on as quickly as he felt it safe to do, and hoped that that would be the last such hold up, because if their current rate of travel did not improve they could be for too close to the silos when the bomber force attacked.

Having arisen early Elena Torneski was looking for the first opportunity to leave the underground facility. It should not have been difficult she’d reasoned, because when she had left the Premier’s side for her bed, he had been euphoric at the army having crossed the Elbe and establishing a large bridgehead, but so few hours later the cleaners had been summonsed again to mop up gore from the floor of the Premier’s office.

Incandescent with rage was a fairly mild description of the Premier’s mood, and he hadn’t calmed down that much when she had been summoned to explain why the KGB had not foreseen the NATO airborne moves or detected the preparatory build-up. Had her agents in the various western governments been asleep at the switch?

Elena Torneski had left the command chamber with orders to find out why no warning had been received and she had no choice but to report back with answers when she had them.

Those politicians that could be contacted had all given her the same reply that SACEUR had cut them out of the loop so completely that not the vaguest hint had reached their ears.

Strangely, this had served in some ways to placate the Premier who reasoned that if a government no longer fully trusted it’s military, and then they would keep a tighter grip on their nuclear weapons, wasting time in unnecessary debate, if and when their Generals asked for them.

The Premier had been toying with the idea of using battlefield nuclear weapons to stop 4 Corps, or smash any last lines of resistance west of the Elbe or possibly even both options. The spectre of a swift NATO reply in kind, which would negate any gains within hours, had of course always made those options too risky, up until now!

The Premier had sent his KGB Chief to wait in the ante room while he considered the possibilities and weighed up the odds, which he would do alone as he held his own General Staff in complete contempt. He did not hold Torneski in the same contempt but he did not ask her opinion on many matters either because she was after all, only a woman.

She knew that the Americans would not launch an ICBM against this facility because the moment a launch was detected the Premier would order a massive counter strike before even learning of where the enemy attack was directed. The Americans would use stealth bombers and for all their high tech wizardry they would still only come during the hours of darkness.

She had memorised when ‘last light’ would be, and for her own safety she should ideally be at least forty miles upwind of this place by then.

Sat in anteroom for hours, the wall clocks audible tick-tock had grown louder as the day had worn on, or so it seemed to her.

Ironically, where it had been General Allain’s plan that had thwarted her escape from the Premier’s secure hideaway in the morning, it was another part of SACEUR’s plan that facilitated her leaving it in the very late afternoon.

The destruction of the ribbon bridges was the deciding factor for the Premier. It wasn’t that he was bored of shooting his own military men, he would just rather kill tens of thousands of NATO’s men and women instead, and he now believed he could do it with impunity. However, Torneski had been summonsed when reports of the French and Canadian action along the river had been received, and she had thought for a moment that it was her turn for a bullet in the spine.

Although the military held the means to deliver the nuclear weapons, it was State Security, the KGB, who retained the warheads. It was to prevent the military using them to overthrow the government, a sensible precaution really, and the head of that state security left the facility in order to supervise the hand-over of six 5-kiloton air launch SS-N-26 warheads for immediate use.

Seven hundred and fifty-nine kilometres north northwest of the bunker, the last of the camouflage was being cleared from the runway and secured, lest any should be sucked into the F-117Xs air intakes.

Patricia had run diagnostics on the aeroplanes systems hours before, and also on their ordnance, getting a red light on an AMRAAM self-guidance board, meaning that it may fail to guide onto the target without the Nighthawk illuminating its target for it, but otherwise finding they were good to go.

With her job done there she had managed to catch a few hours of sleep, waking in the failing light.

Not finding either Caroline or Svetlana in the command bunker she had been about to make her way through the dark woods, back to the Nighthawk, when she had been stopped by one of the Green Berets and given both the password and a warning to stick to the established paths with an ear open for a challenge by sentries.

She had returned to the command post where an update had been received on the progress of the bomber forces roundabout route. The attacks, although the targets were over four thousand kilometres apart, had to be simultaneous. No one involved at the sharp end of the operations had been told of the mission at sea, but as intelligent, reasoning individuals it would not have surprised any of them that the mission had a briny side to it. Take-off time was advanced by twenty minutes due to a tail wind the bombers were experiencing.

They had time for a leisurely meal of MREs and then a last check was made of the runways surface by troops wearing PNGs before Patricia and Caroline climbed aboard the Nighthawk.

The take-off went without technical hitches of any kind; the aircraft easily cleared the trees at the runways end before turning onto the heading for their first leg, unaware that they had compromised the presence of the landing field for all time.

In order to move more quickly from one area of the cordon to the other the deputy commander of Militia Sub-District 178 had decided to cut the corners, using the tracks through the forest.

The map he was using had not been updated for thirty years so he had taken it cautiously; leaving the mass of metal he was travelling in to frequently check his compass.

He had approached the airstrip from almost the opposite direction to that of painfully shambolic advance his superior was leading, and the engine sounds from the Nighthawk prevented the nearest Green Beret listening post from hearing the fighting vehicle draw close.

The deputy commander was checking his compass when he recognised the sound of a jet aircraft running its engines up prior to its take-off run, and then two minutes later the aircraft passed just a hundred feet above his head, a shadow that briefly eclipsed the backdrop of stars in its passing.

There was a definite sense of tension growing within the confines of the pressure hull that had nothing to do with the barometric scale, thought HMS Hood’s captain. Each of the allied hunter-killer’s had in turn dropped back to a distance where they could safely creep toward the surface unheard by their prey, and deploy floating antennae’s before returning to station, fully briefed in what was required.

The captain had briefed the department heads and they in turn had informed each member of the crew that the long days tiptoeing along ended today, but only a successful conclusion to the stalk could influence the direction of the war in their favour.

The captain had done the rounds, looking into the faces and eyes of teenage ratings that had reached maturity in outlook in the space of weeks rather than years. It was not that long ago that he would have witnessed a disgruntled crew had he announced then that despite their hard work and skill in locating the enemy boomer, another vessel would be carrying out the attack.

The war was not one of point scoring for these young men, they didn’t care who fired the final shot, they just wanted it over with and their homes and loved ones safe again.

The time of the attack had not been widely announced, and yet within a very short space of time it had been common knowledge. The closer the hour drew near, the more palpable the feeling in the air.

The captain had dealt with the pressure in a manner he had discovered years before, and it had never failed. The monotony of clearing the administrative back-log, writing annual personnel assessments and a report on this vessel, which had been launched less than a year before wiped away all tension, drowning it in the necessity of creative and analytical thought. Did he think the standard of her construction met Royal Navy requirements? Absolutely! He had typed.

So engrossed was the Captain with his department chiefs reports into the their subordinates abilities and how these could be improved upon even more, that it took a call from the control room to bring him back to the here and now.

It was fifteen minutes before the ordered time of attack when he entered the control room and he noticed straightaway that there were several off watch personnel present.

“Gent’s.” he said in a low voice.

“This is the control room of one of Her Majesty’s warships, not the terraces of a football stadium and as we are now going to quietly assume action stations you need to be elsewhere, clear?”

He first checked the time, ten minutes to go, and then the plot, which showed the Chinese boomer still half encircled by themselves and the three US submarines. His Number One had the watch and all was as it should be.

“Captain, sir?” he turned in the direction of the voice, towards the sonar department where one of the operators was sat with a slight frown.

“Yes, what is it?”

The operator had apparently heard something because he did not immediately reply, he was still facing his captain but his eyes were focussed elsewhere. After a moment the blank expression disappeared and the young man spoke about what had occurred, and why that concerned him.

“Sir, mechanical noises roughly on a bearing of Two Nine Nine.” The captain knew without looking back at the plot that the USS Santa Fe, the designated shooter for the imminent attack lay in that direction, but the operator was not finished. “They are very faint but…but a little louder than I would expec…….” Some further faint noise interrupted him momentarily but he had no difficulty in identifying it.

“Bow doors opening, sir”

There was still six minutes to go, and the captain was about to query what he had just been told but a look of alarm appeared on the sonar operator’s face and was then voiced in his report.

“TorpedoTorpedoTorpedo….two…three, now four torpedoes in the water astern of the Santa Fe, captain!”

Another operator spoke up.

“Santa Fe launching noisemakers and increasing speed sir………the boomers heard it, she’s spooling up too, captain!”

Of course she damn well heard it, the captain though bitterly, they’d have to be under sedation to miss it.

“Captain?” his First Lieutenant had an expression on his face that clearly read ‘What the fuck just happened?’

“It’s the mysteriously absent Chuntian, Number One, she is missing no longer.”

If the captain had to theorise then it would be that she had been off station on some mission of importance and on her way back she must have rumbled the NATO vessels, flooded her tubes out of earshot and then crept back in to make her attack. There was no way that she could know what the flotilla of western submarines had intended on doing in just a few scant minutes, but as a spoiling attack the Chinese captain couldn’t have chosen a better moment even if he’d planned it.

The sonar operators were feeding information to the control room, tracking the torpedoes and the other vessels, “Captain, the first two torpedoes are closing rapidly on the Santa Fe and the other two have acquired the USS Columbia.”

“The first weapons have begun rapid pinging and are accelerating for the Santa Fe…two more weapons launched captain, these have just turned to the north, they’re steering for the Tucson sir, they knew where she was too.”

The Chuntian had to have made her approach from the northwest, the captain mused to himself, because she must surely have heard Hood from any other direction. Columbia had been between the British and Chinese attack submarines, masking them from one another.

Tucson turned away from the approaching weapons and her blade count rose considerably whilst closer to home the Santa Fe released another noisemaker and began a radical turn to starboard but only one of the Chinese torpedoes went for it. The other ignored the newly activated counter measure and although it was travelling too fast to match the US submarines turn it did not matter. The weapons proximity fuse triggered at twelve feet from the vessels stern casing, plates buckled inwards and the seams between them parted, flooding the submarines engine compartment in just seven seconds. Her captain ordered crash surface but before air could be pumped into the ballast tanks the second weapon having swept through the bubble cloud and reacquired, struck the base of the sail and exploded.

Hood’s captain looked at the control room clock and noted bitterly that the second hand was only just sweeping around in its first full circle since his sonar department had alerted him. Just sixty-one seconds ago the one hundred forty strong crew of Santa Fe had been alive and as blissfully oblivious to their peril as everyone else on the western vessels.

The board told him that Columbia was between themselves and the Chuntian, so the Hood could not fire without the risk of hitting the American Los Angeles class vessel unless one of two things happened, they manoeuvred into a position where a shot would not endanger the friendly vessel, or…

The second option occurred even as the captain was thinking it.

“Control Room, sonar…explosion on the Columbia’s bearing…sound of bulkheads buckling and general breaking up noises.”

The captain felt a void open in the pit of his stomach. Another vessel and her crew gone, just like that!

“Sonar…what is the Xia doing? I want you to keep on her because if you lose her we are up the proverbial without a paddle, clear?”

“Aye aye, sir!”

“Weapons…do you have a solution on the Xia?”

His weapons officer had been working on a firing solution on the newly arrived PLAN attack submarine and the captain’s question took him unawares. The captain read that on his face. “As soon as you have a solution on Chuntian launch two Spearfish at five second intervals. That should keep those Chinese on their toes and buy the Tucson a little breathing space but cut the wires once number two is away.” He explained.

“Our friends are on their own for the time being but that boomer cannot be allowed to slip away…we may have a slim advantage in that neither PLAN vessel is apparently aware we are here, that of course will change once we launch though.”

“Captain, sonar…aspect change on Xia, sir?”

The weapons officer got busy and the captain turned his attention back to the sonar department, looking at his watch as he did so, barely a minute had passed since the Chuntian had appeared so the only surprising thing about the Xia’s reaction was that it hadn’t happened several vital seconds before.

“Go, sonar?”

“Xia still increasing turns, now at twelve knots and rising…vessel coming around to starboard…now heading zero seven seven, sir.”

The Chinese ballistic missile submarine was turning across the Hood’s bow, a clear confirmation that the Boomer was unaware of them but then the hull rang as the Xia’s sonar went active, sending out several pounding beats of sound to check who else was in the neighbourhood.

“That’s torn it.” muttered his Number One.

“It helps with our solution though.”

The Xia’s helm went back over as soon as she detected the Hood. She came around to a course leading directly away from the Royal Navy submarine.

“Captain, we have solutions on both vessels.”

He nodded, pausing for a moment to question his own tactics before deciding that they were indeed correct.

“Bring us up to fifteen knots on a heading of zero one eight, assign one and two to the Chuntian, three and four to the Xia but do not cut the wires on three and four, we’ll guide as long as we can, however, reload one and two with Spearfish straight away.” In the background his orders were repeated aloud and he stood calmly, allowing the vessel to respond as ordered.

The deck tilted beneath his feet before levelling as the required heading was achieved.

“Captain, heading is now zero one eight at fifteen knots.”

“Very good, flood one through four, open outer doors and shoot.”

As soon as the weapons were away he turned his attention towards the engagement between the Chuntian and the Tucson, the US vessel was defensive and had launched two weapons at the Chinese vessel whilst running from the torpedoes that were homing on them. The Tucson’s weapons were not under guidance from the weapons operators, she had cut the wires and reloaded straight away so the weapons were pinging and therefore visible to the enemy vessel. It is far easier to avoid a threat you can see than one you cannot, as the case would have been had operators been guiding the weapon.

HMS Hood would guide her weapons in using the information available to the Royal Navy weapons operators, and although her captain doubted they could steer them all the way unseen it was the best he could do for the American vessel at present.

Ahead of them the Xia was still building speed when she released a whole series of noisemakers, the sound of her screw disappeared as the Hood’s sonar’s were drenched with the counter measures masking sound.

As the information on the boomers movements tailed off to nothingness the captain moved from the weapons operator’s positions to that of the sonar department.

“What’s she doing?”

Several minutes had now elapsed since the Xia had launched the first noisemaker and that device had just ceased to produce gas bubbles, it was now sinking silently toward the distant ocean floor.

“Sorry sir, too much racket.” The operator made some fine adjustments but then gave a half shake of the head.

“Nothing at all, she’s kept the noisemakers between us to hide, sir.”

That wasn’t too smart thought the captain, carrying on in a straight line wasn’t hiding because they knew her heading, unless…

“Come right to One Three Zero…standby countermeasures!”

The weapons officers turned in his seat to pose a question. “A hard turn might cut the wires captain, shall I do that anyway?”

“No, not at present Gavin, I am actually trying to prevent that from becoming necessary.”

His weapons officer did not understand, but then a sonar operator enlightened everyone except the captain who had already guessed correctly.

“TorpedoTorpedoTorpedo…high speed screws bearing zero one two. Two torpedoes just emerging from the bubble cloud!”

“Launch counter measures…bring us up to two hundred feet but keep this heading.” The captain looked over at his weapons officer who was wondering just how his captain had known the Chinese had launched weapons directly back the way they had come.

“It’s what I would have done in his shoes, Gavin.”

With Hood heading towards the noisy surface of the ocean the Chinese torpedoes went for the Hood’s noisemakers.

Hood’s own torpedoes stayed under their operators control as they entered the bubble cloud created by the Xia’s counter measure, the operators used the torpedoes as an extension of their hydrophones although the Spearfish systems were nowhere as sensitive as the submarines sensors. They waited in anticipation of regaining contact with the Chinese ballistic missile submarine but as the torpedoes emerged out of the bubbles into clear water once more they only detected another cloud of bubbles ahead.

“What speed was the Xia making when contact was lost?” the captain enquired.

“Twenty four knots, sir.” His Number One stated. “There was no indication that she was slowing or had finished accelerating.”

“Humph!” The captain exclaimed disparagingly.

“Our intelligence sources stated her top speed was only twenty two knots.”

The Hood was still making fifteen knots, a long way from her best speed but any faster would certainly ensure the control wires to the Spearfish would break.

“She’s drawing away captain, do we increase speed?”

With a shake of the head the captain dismissed the idea.

“I think perhaps that is what he wants.” Turning to the helmsmen he gave brief instructions.

“Come left again to Zero One Eight but maintain this depth and speed.” He was trying to put himself in the opposing captain’s head, trying to predict where the boomer would be in five minutes time but he couldn’t allow himself to get tunnel vision. “Sonar?”

“Yes, captain?”

“What’s going on with the Tucson and Chuntian?”

“Captain the Chuntian is bearing three one one, heading two eight four at twenty four knots, range six thousand three hundred metres, depth two four five, …the Tucson bearing three five zero, heading zero at thirty one knots, range twelve thousand, depth four zero zero sir.”

That was good, the Chinese attack submarine was running from the Spearfish but she would now know that her charge was in peril from the Hood.

The commanding officer of Her Majesty’s Submarine Hood had an easier job of putting himself in the place of the Chuntian’s captain, he’d be getting out of the way of the Spearfish and then coming after the Royal Navy submarine with all guns blazing.

“Are one and two reloaded?”

His weapons officer nodded and replied. “Yes sir, thirty seconds ago.”

It was another minute before their torpedoes entered the bubble cloud created by the last series of noisemakers the Xia had dumped in its wake, but this time on passing through to the other side the operators could hear distinct propeller noises, as blades churned away at the ocean at the same depth and heading as previously detected.

“Contact re-established captain, she’s making turns for twenty seven knots, bearing zero one eight, heading same, range four thousand two hundred!”

The captain felt a flush of relief; an awful doubt had existed in his gut that the big missile boat would simply have vanished. He glanced at the board, the range to the target that had been given was from torpedo number one and he added the distance from Hood to that weapon, six thousand nine hundred metres.

“Weapons, go active on both torpedoes, accelerate them and cut the wires.”

“Aye aye sir, going active on weapons one and two…accelerating and cutting the wires…closing bow doors for reload of tubes three and four captain.”

“Very good…keep this heading and give me thirty four knots for two minutes.”

“Aye sir, maintaining heading of zero one eight and making turns for thirty four knots for two minutes.”

The captain paused to allow his orders to be carried out, feeling a vibration in the deck as the Hood’s single screw began thrusting the vessel through the water at its maximum speed.

As the submarines speed increased the sonar reception deteriorated and with nothing to listen for in real time a leading sonarman took the opportunity to rewind the recent recording of the Xia and analyse it with a practiced ear. He knew the intelligence assessment on its speed and as that was clearly in error he sought for some clue to the secret of its true performance. A discovery came swiftly, but not to the question he had set.

Filtering out the sound of the pounding screws he listened keenly to the sound of the vessels reactor pump and then to an earlier recording.

“Captain, sonar!”

The captain approached the leading sonarman’s station where a set of headphones was offered.

“Yes, Kentleigh?” the captain placed one headphone against his right ear and enquired. “Exactly what am I listening to?”

“That’s a recording taken four days ago of the Xia with all but the sound of her reactors high pressure pump filtered out.”

The captain listened to a slow and faint noise that sounded rather like asthmatic wheezing. He nodded to the sonarman who pressed a key on the workstation in front of him. He heard a metallic click in the earpiece as the soundtracks were switched and then the same rhythmic wheeze; he listened hard and concluded that it was the same.

“Okay I’ll bite, what’s your point?”

“Sir, the second recording is only five minutes old.”

The self-discipline that the captain exercised at all times in front of the crew almost, almost, snapped. The sound of the high-pressure pump operating on a vessel travelling at only three knots could never ever sound the same as one working flat out.

“Come left to zero degrees and make your speed three knots.” He ordered before patting Kentleigh on the shoulder. “It seems that the Peoples Republic have themselves quite an effective submarine decoy which we knew nothing of before, well done.”

As Hood’s speed dropped off the sonar department sought to re-establish contact, the operators listening for some give-away noise amid the natural hubbub of the Pacific that could only be man-made.

Of the Tucson there was no trace, the US attack submarine had defeated the weapons sent against it and gone quiet, shrouding itself in silence as it began a stalk of the killer of its sister ships but she was now miles away and of no immediate assistance to HMS Hood.

They knew the Xia could not be far away, and in fact she had stopped running and launched a torpedo shaped Ghost Lamp, a pre-programmed decoy that was designed to emit sound waves that exactly mimicked its parent. The Xia had as a sensible precaution a Ghost Lamp programmed to run at their own top speed and loaded at all times in a torpedo tube where it required only the tube to be flooded and the bows doors opened. This Ghost Lamp had promptly failed, leaving a trail of bubbles behind as it sank into the stygian darkness below the boomer.

A second Ghost Lamp had been hurriedly prepared and launched, emitting an almost identical acoustic signature to that of the Xia. The Chinese weapons officer, working furiously at his console, had only moments to load the necessary sound files into the decoys memory, and he had patched and pasted quite literally the first available ‘pump noise’ file in the Xia’s sonar history library.

Xia herself had gone deep behind the cover of her noisy countermeasures and reduced her speed to a slow walk, listening with satisfaction to the western attack submarine thundering past in pursuit.

HMS Hood’s sonar department listened to the mournful pinging from west, northwest of two of their torpedoes as they swam zigzag courses in an effort to reacquire the Chuntian. They noted grimly an explosion to the north, northeast as a Spearfish silenced the Ghost Lamp that had suckered them in for a while, and they recognised the Chuntian as she headed their way at ten knots, too slow to be waking the neighbourhood but not slow enough to avoid detection by a western sonar suite. Chuntian’s solid fix on Hood’s position had faded as the British submarine lost way and her captain was desperate to re-establish contact. Coming in at ten knots would allow his own sonar operators to work whilst hopefully prompting a reaction from the Hood.

The British captain ordered another course change once three knots had been achieved, bringing the vessel right around to a heading of Two Seven Zero because he was certain that they had overshot the Chinese missile boat, but that was the only factor he was certain of.

“If you were the boomer then where would you be, Kentleigh?”

The operator took a moment to answer, consulting the details he brought up on the screen before responding.

“There’s a thermal layer another two hundred feet below us, I’d be under that by a good margin, sir.”

The captain considered it.

“Okay, and on what heading?”

“In the opposite direction to the one we were on.” Kentleigh replied.

“I’d want to get as much distance as possible between us.”

The Leading Sonarman had answered with a calm confidence and the captain decided to run with it.

“Come left again to One Nine Eight…make your depth seven hundred feet and take us there slowly.”

The Hood turned onto the ordered heading even as she sank away from the light of the surface above her. She had not reached the required depth when the sonar department reported again.

“Captain, sonar…aspect change on the Chuntian, now making turns for twenty eight knots.”

“Range, bearing, course and depth?” he asked.

“Sorry sir we are in the layer now so there’s nothing consistent on the panel.” The captain understood, the thermal layer made accurate sonar readings impossible on anything on the opposite side.

His Number One stepped close, speaking in a low voice so as not to distract the crewmen’s concentration.

“What do you think sir, she can’t have heard us?”

“No I don’t think so, although I think her sonar suite is an awful lot better than intelligence gave it credit for I reckon she is dangling herself as bait to try and tempt us into launching on her, thereby giving away a position that she and the Xia can both launch on.”

“And if we don’t fire on her…” his Number One mused. “….they get to close the engagement range, considerably.”

The captain nodded in agreement and spent a second longer in thought before reaching a decision and clapping his second in command on the back.

“There is another course of action we can take that they don’t seem to have considered though.”

“Sir?”

“We are resigning from the Silent Service, forthwith.” He laughed at his Number Ones expression and then turned to address the control room.

“In a few seconds we will be below the thermal layer, I want the Spearfish in tubes one and two readied for shots at the Chuntian and three for a snap shot at the Xia…the Spearfish in tube four will also be for the Xia once a proper solution is worked out…so let us take advantage of the layer while we have it and open bow doors.”

Behind him the Weapons Officer instructed the Torpedo Room to flood tubes one, two and three and open the outer doors. All eyes were on the captain, whose own were directed at the sonar operator he was stood beside.

Anticipation has a way of stretching time, and like the track runner in the blocks who knows the seconds between the words “Get set.” and the starters gun, can seem as long as minutes, so the officers and ratings felt time slow down.

At last Kentleigh nodded emphatically

“Clear of the layer sir.”

“Thank you.” The captain raised his voice.

“Go active on the sonar, three pulses only and standby torpedoes.”

Had the Chuntian been moving at a stealthy three knots she could have locked down the Royal Navy submarines position to within two feet when the waves of active sonar pounded out, but she was at flank speed and was therefore aware of the sources approximate direction only, and she would not even know for certain she had been launched on until she slowed, so her captain ordered his vessel to come back to ten knots, finishing the sprint well short of where he had originally planned.

The Xia on the other hand did the opposite, she was like a burglar tiptoeing towards a house over the back garden in the dead of night when suddenly the security lights come on, she froze for a heartbeat and then bolted, but at 7000 tons submerged that description was in rather relative terms.

“Contact bearing one eight zero, range seven four zero zero, depth eight zero zero.”

The operator had only reported a sonar echo reported the position of something large enough to reflect sound waves back at them, something large like a whale, a large school of fish or a submarine. There were no allied submarines in the area apart from the Tucson and she was too far north at the moment.

“Tube Three, match bearings and shoot.”

A slight tremble through the deck plates evidenced the launch and lights on the Weapons Officers panel confirmed the fact.

“Weapon running correctly, sir.”

“Thank you…sonar?”

“Sir?”

“Tell me about the Chuntian?”

“Sir, bearing two nine eight, heading one seven zero, range nine thousand, speed twenty four knots and slowing, depth four nine zero…five zero five, she’s joining us below the layer sir.”

“Tubes One and Two then please, while she’s still too fast to hear the launch…shoot!”

Again, the vibrations in the deck plate, and confirmation of the weapons status a moment later.

“Captain, we have a solution on the Xia. Bearing one eight zero on a heading of one seven nine, range seven three nine zero, depth eight zero zero, speed nine knots and rising?”

He nodded in acknowledgement.

“Very good…runtime on weapon number three please?”

“Fifty five seconds, sir.”

Looking at his wristwatch the captain allowed the second hand to progress another twenty seconds, he knew the Xia would launch counter measures and he was hoping the interval would be sufficient to ensure that both weapons were not foxed by the same noisemaker.

“Tube four, match bearings and shoot.”

For the fourth time in less than a minute and a half the vessel vibrated slightly as compressed air boosted a torpedo out into the open water. The Spearfish torpedo accelerated into the blackness of the Pacific’s depths steered toward its target by impulses travelling along the wafer thin cable that unravelled behind it. Its own sensor package was in standby mode as a weapons operator aboard the Hood sent guidance instructions that placed the weapon in a tail chase with the fleeing ballistic missile submarine. The Spearfish from tube four was kilometres behind the Xia but like tubes three’s weapon ahead of it; it was outpacing the big submarine. Hood’s captain was quite happy for the Xia to keep going as it was in a straight line as fast as it could, his operators had steered both Spearfish into her six o’clock, every submarines blind spot.

There was little for him do now except wait for something happen.

He took a look around the control room at his officers and ratings, all of whom were hard at their own particular trades. He wondered if any of them knew that the outcome of the war could quite possibly rest in their hands? They were all far too busy to stop and think of the consequences of failure.

“Captain, sonar…” it was time to get back to work. “….aspect change on Xia, course change fifteen degrees to port, now heading one six four.”

So the Xia’s captain had turned to allow his sonar to look behind. They would run now to their best speed and begin chucking out countermeasures.

“Very good…come left to one seven zero, maintain this depth and speed, please.”

“Aye aye, coming left to one seven zero, maintaining depth and speed, sir.”

“Captain, weapons?”

“Go ahead ‘Weps’?”

“Sorry captain, weapon three is now showing a red light.”

At fifteen knots he would not have been surprised if at least one wire had snapped due to the additional stresses, but that was not what the weapons operator was reporting.

“What is the nature of the fault?” he demanded, wanting further information before he would order another weapon launched.

“Sir, the system is telling me it is a non-specified error…sir, I now have a green light once more.”

The captain did not immediately respond as he considered cutting the weapon loose anyway. There was a lot riding on this attack and it was not something he could allow to pass without considering the odds. Had the Hood been built with six tubes he would indeed have ordered a further weapon launched at the Xia, but it only had four and they were all in use.

“Thank you weapons, if the error repeats itself on that Spearfish cut the wire and reload immediately, understood?”

“Aye aye, captain.”

No sooner had that operator finished then a sonar operator was calling for his attention. Weapon four had eaten up the distance now and the PLAN crew was reacting.

“Captain, sonar…Xia launching countermeasures and coming right to two one three.”

“Thank you sonar…Weapons, status of weapon four please?”

“Sir, weapon four running correctly and now twelve hundred metres from the Xia.”

It was time to accelerate the spearfish. “Increase speed on both weapons please but retain control.”

Ahead of them the Chinese boomer as if hearing his words launched two torpedoes of its own before ejecting more countermeasures and making a radical turn to port.

The weapons operator controlling number four steered the Spearfish around to follow the turn whilst number threes operator used the opportunity to make up distance by cutting the corner, steering straight toward the vessel.

The Xia reversed its turn and number fours operator cursed under his breath.

“Sir, the wire to number four has broken, but the weapon is guiding independently.”

“Very good…” Any relief he felt on the assurance that weapon four was guiding began to wilt with the next report.

“Control room, sonar…Xia has launched another decoy.”

The captain just knew what was coming next.

“Captain, weapon four is rapid pinging…weapon four is accelerating and tracking the decoy, sir.”

The plot showed the Xia continuing its starboard turn whilst the decoy continued straight ahead, with the Spearfish from tube four completely fooled and closing rapidly.

“Status on weapon three, please?”

“Weapon three is still under control and closing on the Xia, captain.”

“Control room, sonar…explosion bearing one nine seven, weapon four has destroyed the decoy…captain please be advised the weapons from the Xia appear to be steering independently on a heading of zero three zero, and we are currently outside of their detection sphere.”

That at least was some good news; they would not have to risk losing contact in manoeuvring to avoid the Xia’s torpedoes.

“TorpedoTorpedoTorpedo…two weapons in the water bearing three one zero, range seven five zero zero, heading one six five, speed forty five knots…Chuntian has opened fire on us captain.”

The captain acknowledged the last report before commenting.

“If he was trying to put us off our stroke he’s left it a bit late, and travelling at that speed they will have precious little fuel left when they get close.” There was no way that the Chinese attack submarines weapons could influence the outcome now he thought, but they would eat up the intervening distance so he would have to keep a close eye on them.

“Captain, permission to accelerate weapon three and cut the wire?”

“Granted.”

The Xia began to reverse its turn once more but feinted, turning even harder to starboard and pumping out noisemakers as fast as it could but the Spearfish was too close for them to have generated enough sound in time to register on the weapon.

The Hood’s captain watched the plot, the tight turn the boomer was performing and the Spearfish closing at fifty knots, closing until both tracks merged…and then diverged.

“What the…”

“Captain, weapon three has failed, sir.”

That damn red light earlier the captain thought, cursing himself for not cutting the wire at the time and launching another weapon instead, but it was too late now to waste effort in self-recrimination. The Spearfish continued unwaveringly onwards without any attempt to reacquire its target.

Had the captain been alone he would without doubt have lashed out at some inanimate object, but now was not the time or place.

“Aspect change on the Xia, target is now making turns for ten knots, bearing two zero zero, range four nine five zero on a heading of one eight three, depth six eight zero…six seven zero, she’s heading up captain.”

“Captain, Chuntian’s torpedoes have acquired us…impact in two minutes, sir?”

He took a deep breath and dismissed the feeling of unfairness that had briefly invaded his thoughts.

“Thank you…reload tubes three and four with Spearfish, come left to one eight eight and give me turns for twenty knots…standby countermeasures.”

“Aye sir, reloading three and four with Spearfish…heading is now one eight eight…making turns for two zero knots…countermeasures loaded and ready, sir.”

“Captain, wires have broken on one and two…sonar reports weapon two has acquired the Chuntian…Chuntian launching countermeasures and accelerating but maintaining her course and depth.”

The captain felt a tinge of respect for the Chuntian’s captain, his job was to protect the boomer and he was obviously intent on just that. Heading towards a weapon in the vain hope that noisemakers launched into his vessels wake would distract that weapon was a plan doomed to failure. The attack submarine moving at full speed was far noisier than any gas-generating countermeasure could ever be, but despite this the Chinese commander was trying because there were no other options open to him.

The captain looked towards the weapons board, seeing red lights still shining on the status boards for tubes three and four but he made no comment, knowing that the forward torpedo room troops were the best there was and nobody could do it any faster right now.

“Sonar, status on Xia please?”

“Sir, her forward speed is down to five knots but she’s going up fast. Depth now two six zero, course same.”

“Weapons, reload One and Two with Spearfish as soon as you can, and do you still have a solution on the Xia?”

“Yes sir, constantly updating it captain.” His weapons officer looked slightly puzzled.

“Is she trying to hide in the surface noise clutter or something, sir?”

The captain gave him a tight smile but one that was totally devoid of humour as he answered with a question of his own. “Think about it a moment Gavin, what would a boomer’s launch profile be?”

“Er, probably maintaining an even keel, making no headway at a depth of between sixty and one hundred feet, captain…he’s going to launch his missiles, isn’t he sir?”

The captain did not answer because just then the red lights on the board turned to green. “Flood Three and Four, open outer doors, match bearings with the Xia and shoot.”

The torpedoes were launched, and even as they left the tubes every member of the crew heard the first solid Ping from one of the Chuntian’s fast approaching weapons.

“Launch countermeasures, come left to one five zero at thirty knots, make your depth two zero zero!”

“Control room, sonar…explosion at bearing three one eight…very faint breaking up noises.”

On the plot the tracks of the Chuntian and Hood’s Spearfish had met head on. No one cheered.

The Chuntian’s crew may have lost the battle but the Xia could still win the war for them.

Hood’s captain took hold of the back of the coxswain’s seat for support as the deck canted to one side and tilted as the Hood headed up to the surface, turning out of the Chinese torpedoes path as she went.

The Xia reached one hundred feet below the surface and came to a dead stop. Her bow doors opened and she launched three torpedoes towards the Hood, which could plainly be heard now.

In her current stationary state discharging noisemakers would be a futile act, and as she carried no more of the Ghost Lamp decoys it was a race against the Spearfish she could also hear in order to launch her ICBMs.

On a count of three, he and the ships political officer’s keys turned in their respective secure weapons panels and initiated a fully automated launch routine. He knew exactly which target each missile was allotted to and what their place was in the launch sequence. If only one missile was launched before the torpedoes struck, the second attack in history on Pearl Harbour would be a thousand times more devastating than the first.

The vibrations resounded through the big Chinese submarine as the outer doors of the launch tubes opened two by two and seawater began to fill the voids around the missile launch canisters sat within.

Aboard the USS Tucson they listened to the sound of the battle in full knowledge of what it would mean should HMS Hood fail to kill the Xia before she launched. They had tracked every torpedo from each vessel from the time they themselves had outrun the weapons Chuntian had sent after them. Every twist, turn and feint of the combatants had been recorded and plotted. And never before had the crew of the US submarine felt so totally impotent as when the Xia came to a dead stop and opened her launch tube doors.

They heard the distant, double ping of torpedoes own sensors as they acquired and the sound of the weapons propellers become shrill as they drove them at their targets at maximum acceleration. Finally the hammer blows as warheads detonated, followed by the gut churning sound of bulkheads buckling and the sea rushing in.