Fight Through

CHAPTER 5

Following Svetlana and Caroline’s visit to the Russian girls contact, the routine at the farmhouse had sunk back into more or less the same monotonous routine as previously.

Svetlana no longer had to listen to the radios constant programming of folk and classical music from dawn to dusk. From 1900 to 2100 were the times she now draped herself in an armchair next to the old couples’ radio set, the rest of the time she and the Americans helped out around the farm.

The previous afternoon Patricia had left once more to perform maintenance on the Nighthawk; it left the pilot and the spy to help the farmer and his wife until the evening.

At 8pm Svetlana had listened to the hourly news report, hearing how the courageous Red Army had forced the Elbe and Saale rivers and NATO was in full retreat, which to her reckoning made it the seventh time in the past two weeks. Even the wording of the item was identical to that of the previous bulletins.

After the news the music programme had resumed with Wait For Your Soldier, sung by a well-known baritone and Svetlana had sat upright. After all the previous so-called good news reports, the audiences had been treated to stirring performances by the Red Army Chorus singing the likes of The Brave Don Cossacks. The piece tonight had been followed by Ochi Chornye, Dark Eyes, but the romantic gypsy melody had stopped after twelve seconds with an announcer apologising for technical difficulties before it had restarted.

Caroline, sketching the Russian girl once again had noticed the body language change and paused in what she was doing.

The same baritone who had performed the song, informing already faithful and patriotic womanhood that their men would return and to keep faith in inevitable victory had then sung Dubinushka. The sequence of the first two songs, with the technical difficulties had been the signal from Elena Torneski that the Premier’s present location followed. Torneski had allotted each of the secure locations the title of a song and Svetlana opened a map, finding Saratov on the river Volga, and then tracing a finger westwards to a river valley twenty-six miles from the town.

“Here’s your target Caroline.”

Major Nunro had looked at what was marked as a disused mineshaft set in a re-entrant off a narrow river valley.

“Can you hit it?” Svetlana had asked.

“Oh we can hit it honey, we just got to get there first.”

It was only a little under 400 miles as the crow flies, but it meant an initial circular route to avoid overflying the Moscow air defence zone, after which they would need to pick their way around four fighter bases that lay on the way.

Leaving the Russian girl, she had set up the satellite transmitter, sending the location to the US and informing them they could not attack for at least eighteen hours, allowing for the time it would take to return to the forest strip once Pat had returned.

Svetlana was no longer in the living room when she’d returned. The water was being run upstairs so Caroline lifted a floorboard and false section of pipe below it to bring out a laptop. The USB she had inserted contained what had been the most up to date intelligence on AAA locations in Russia at the time they had left Kinloss. With the machine powered up she’d begun the business of plotting a route.

Patricia had an uncomfortable journey, as usual, concealed within their contact’s ancient van. Patricia had been trying to learn basic Russian and used a flashlight to read the children’s textbook she had found in a box at the farm. It was one way to pass the time, repeating parrot fashion such useful phrases as “Ya zhyvu na marskom paberezh’e”, as if a KGB guard at a checkpoint could give a damn that she allegedly lived at the seaside, though! Twenty miles from the forest the contact had stopped the van and left the cab to stand beside it, looking for all the world like a man tending to the call of nature. Being inside the rattling contraption she could hear little of the outside world so it came as a shock when he spoke loud enough for her to hear, informing her that there were helicopters in the area and about a mile off one was hovering, the light reflecting off the lenses of a surveillance device it carried. No doubt the crew were watching them as he spoke, his head carefully away so they could not see him speaking.

“How long have they been watching us?” Pat had asked.

“Off and on for about forty minutes.”

“And you only tell me now?”

She hadn’t been able to see him shrug as he did up his fly buttons.

“I didn’t need to pee until now. Their cameras are very good; they would see I was just pretending if I stopped when I first saw them.”

They had continued the journey and the helicopter, apparently satisfied had vanished for the time being, no doubt checking on other vehicles in the area.

At a small hamlet the driver had stopped the van and left her there whilst he went to make discrete enquiries.

On his return the news had been nearly all bad, deserters had taken over one of the more remote farms, remaining until the food had run out before moving on, but not before killing the family that lived there, to prevent them from sounding the alarm as soon as they were out of sight. The bodies of the family had been found that morning, and the word around the hamlet was that they had been related in some way to the regional military commander, who had drawn on resources from surrounding regions and begun a manhunt. All properties were being searched and roadblocks were up on all the roads, slowly extending out from the scene. The only good news was that the helicopters were on loan to the region for just today, and of course the contact knew of another route to the forest, always providing it wasn’t too muddy for his van.

“How far is this commander extending his search, as far as our farm?”

“Possibly, and possibly they will search the forest also, it is an obvious place for deserters to hide but only now are there enough militiamen available to do that.”

“How did you find out all of this?”

“The baker, his son-in-law is a militiaman, and they both like people to know they are in the know.”

Lying in the darkness with the contact leaning against the vehicle’s side, eating Tvarok and Chyorny Khlep, local cottage cheese and black bread purchased from the talkative baker, Patricia was silent for a moment as she weighed up the correct course of action to take.

“We have to go back, collect the others and get to the forest.”

“Da.” He wrapped the remains of his snack in a tissue to be finished later, and fished out the vans keys. Five minutes later they were heading back.

A thousand feet above the forest one of the helicopters in question slowly quartered the area. In the observer’s monitor, the heat sources showed up as lighter outlines. Birds, small animals, silka deer and wild boar, all left their traces on the screen, but humans thus far had been the only cause of excitement all day. It had landed in a clearing to drop off five militiamen before taking to the air once more, ready to provide fire support. It had proved an anti-climax to find two elderly men from a local village cutting wood, and after collecting the militia the patrol had continued.

The presence of the helicopter was of great concern at the airstrip. The Green Berets positions were all covered with heat sensor defeating material, grey woven, man-made fabric that could be cut to size. Even up close the strip looked disused, its surface fractured by the hardy bushes and grasses growing through the cracks they had made, but the downwash of the helicopters blades would literally blow away that deception, if it landed there or even hovered a few feet above.

The entire detachment had stood-to when the sound of the aircraft had reached them, moving to the dug in positions circling the strip, but it was almost an hour before anyone saw it. The detachment commander had picked up the field telephone and received the report. The report had been concise and accurate, identifying the threat as a single a Mi-8R Hip with military markings. The detachment commander had questioned the observers identification because of the similarities between the Mi-8, the ageing workhorse of the rotary wing fleet, and the Mi-171 which was more heavily armed, carried more armour and also a modern ECM suite, however the soldier qualified his identification of it by stating the tail rotor was on the right of the tail assembly not the left, and there was an absence of the bulbous additional filters, a feature of the Mi-171, on the turbine intakes above and slightly aft of the cockpit. The Mi-8R was a reconnaissance aircraft and as such could only carry eighteen troops, six less than its troop carrier sibling, but the Mi-171 could carry twenty-four also. Either way, if properly trained and handled, those troops could tie down his men until reinforcements arrived.

The Green Berets could easily bring the machine down but that would be letting the cat out of the bag and at the end of the day, if the enemy discovered their presence then the mission was a failure. If Major Nunro was not able to fly the F-117X out then the weapon would have to be removed and the aircraft destroyed. What would then follow that course of action would be the E&E from hell, and the detachment commander didn’t give a lot for their chances of survival if that came about because the priority would be to keep the weapon out of enemy hands, and that meant staying together as a unit rather than scattering in pairs.

The American Special Forces troops watched the helicopter, kept their FIM-92A Stingers close to hand, and settled down to a long day.

The journey back had been a nightmare, thanks to a broken hose that had been temporary fixed with a roll of duct tape, and a puncture and further complicated by a frozen wheel nut, which had sheared off, consequently it was gone midnight before the van had halted a quarter of a mile from the farm. Patricia, stiff from the long confinement left the van and made her way cautiously across country, her heart pounding in the expectation that the militia had beaten them here and were just lying in wait for her return.

Like most aircrew Patricia had posed for a photo in flight school, clad in flight gear with helmet under one arm and a Beretta 9M featuring prominently in its shoulder holster, it was the warrior bit, but like most aircrew she hadn’t spent a great deal of time at the range. The two English police officers had made her and Caroline put several hundred rounds down the range before taking them through CQB, close quarter battle scenario’s to gain familiarity with the weapon, and therefore confidence. She wasn’t bubbling over with confidence as she’d set off with a handgun supplied by the contact, reminding herself to make use of shadow and remain still when the clouds gave way to the moon, using the time to memorise the ground between her present piece of cover and the next.

When cloud covered the moon once more she moved cautiously forward with her Beretta held before her, straight-armed and the weapon in a two handed grip. The bulbous, six-inch long sound suppressor destroyed the balance and she had been warned that both range and stopping power would be inhibited, so she had to be close for it to be of any use. Where her eyes went the weapon followed and after several hundred yards she was feeling a lot better about this, the Lara Croft of the flight line, but then she swore under her breathe, calling herself some very unflattering names as she knelt and cocked the weapon, wincing at the noise it made before standing once more and continuing. Why the hell hadn’t she thought to make the weapon ready whilst still inside the van?

The house, when it came into view, was in darkness and she paused for a few minutes to listen, realising that ears were at least as important a sense as the eyes at night, before moving around the house in a circle. Once she reached the side of the house where the old ladies herb garden lay she paused again, waiting for the moon to appear through a gap in the scattered cloud covering in order to look at the well-tended and raked surface for boot prints, there were none. Surely anyone surrounding and then searching the place would have walked across it at some point, wouldn’t they? Off in the direction of their nearest neighbour a dog barked, its sound carrying across in the nights stillness, Patricia couldn’t remember hearing that before and peered in the direction of the disturbed canine but the other farm wasn’t visible from ground level.

Inside the dark house she paused inside the kitchen to listen, but found that her heart rate was so high the coursing blood in her veins was inhibiting her hearing and she had to wipe the sweat off her palms, rubbing them against the material of her jeans whilst holding the Beretta one handed, before fishing out a pen light.

She had experienced problems with this back in Scotland, holding the weapon with sound suppressor in one hand and the torch in the other before finding what Pc Pell had called ‘her girlie solution’, resting the suppressor on her other forearm whilst holding the penlight cack-handed.

Trying to remember all she had been taught she checked each of the ground floor rooms, but all appeared in order, the signs of a search were not evident. Keeping to the edge of the stairs to minimise the risk of creaking floorboards she made her way upstairs. The first bedroom was Caroline’s, and Patricia had to put the pen light between her teeth in order to turn its handle before resuming her stance. The penlight revealed an unmade yet empty bed with the sketchpad lying open upon it.

It wasn’t what Patricia had expected to find and she remained motionless for a second with a bemused expression on her face before entering the room and kneeling to check under the bed. She didn’t know what she expected to find but she didn’t know where the hell else her pilot could be. No USAF pilots were hiding beneath the springs and she stood, the light from the penlight illuminating the sketchpad as she did so and Patricia did a double take. There was a full length nude study of the Russian girl, impressive in its capturing of Svetlana’s features and of the expression on her face, it was also extremely graphic, the pose was obviously post coital but Patricia’s attention was snatched away from it as the distant barking sounded once more. Stepping to the window she opened the curtains to see that their neighbours lights were on, which in itself was a very unusual event for a farm at this time of night, but also there were the headlights of at least three vehicles beside the building too.

She left Caroline’s room at a dead run, turning along the corridor to the back of the house and racing for Svetlana’s room. She didn’t slow when she reached it, just barged the door open before stumbling to halt inside. Svetlana and Caroline were together on the bed, their faces turned towards her in alarm before the tangle of naked limbs hurriedly unravelled. Patricia ignored the nudity and the confirmation of a relationship she had only suspected a few minutes before on seeing the sketch pad, her pilot was ashen faced and seemed to be trying to find the right words but Patricia no time

“The militia are searching all the farms…get dressed!” Caroline opened her mouth to speak but closed it again as she realised what she was about to say was as inane as it was futile. Svetlana was already moving, pulling on underwear and jeans, so Caroline followed suit.

The commotion had roused the elderly couple who had appeared on the landing outside their room and Patricia managed to make them understand that they could not switch on the lights and that herself and the other two young women were leaving, she then retrieved the satellite phone from its hiding place in the orchard, sending a brief sitrep before placing it in a rucksack.

Although their few belongings had been kept packed for a quick exit should it be necessary, it still took several minutes for them to gather downstairs. Caroline removed the laptop from its hiding place and replaced it with a bottle of good vodka, as an excuse for the hiding places existence if a search should discover it. Svetlana came down last, having ensured that there were the odd items left in the bedrooms and bathroom that would reinforce the farmers story that a niece and her friends from Moscow had been staying, but had decided it was safe now to return to Moscow, and had left the previous day. She kissed first the wife and then the farmer, wishing them well and promising to visit once the war was finished. For her part, the farmer’s wife hugged and kissed all three before shooing them out into the darkness with a prayer for their safe journey.

Svetlana took from Patricia the Beretta and also the lead, walking point as they headed back the way the American had come. She set a fast pace that had them breathing hard by the time they reached the van and the, by now, extremely anxious driver.

Once they were concealed within, their contact pulled on a pair of PNGs and off they moved, back towards the forest, but only for a few hundred yards. In the dark confines within the van they were alarmed at the sudden stop the van made, followed by its reversing fast and then turning sharply. The smooth surface of the road gave way to ruts and holes as the contact backed into a field and concealed the van behind a high hedgerow before switching off the engine.

The Russian and the USAF aircrew had no way of seeing out of the vehicle and could only sit in the darkness with beating hearts. At first they could hear nothing at all, just the sound of their own breathing, but then came sound of engines and the clank of tracks on the road surface.

A pair of BMP-1 fighting vehicles passed by the field without stopping and then came a third BMP leading a convoy of three trucks, which also drove by without stopping or slowing.

Further down the road the leading pair turned off the road, demolishing a section of fence and driving across the crops so laboriously planted and tended by the farmer and his wife, to take up positions where they could intercept anyone fleeing from the farmhouse.

After a few minutes their contact left the van to listen, but apparently satisfied that there were no more militia following on he returned to the cab and the journey resumed.

An apologetic marine lieutenant shook Henry Shaw into wakefulness, but at least he had the decency to have a mug of java in his hand.

There was no contact yet between the Red Army and the forces charged with denying them easy access to the autobahns, and neither Equalizer nor Guillotine had reached critical mass. Henry would need his strength and wits about him when that happened. Accordingly he had taken the opportunity to return to his bunk after the President, under protest, had been ushered off to bed by his doctor for a minimum four hours sleep. The Presidents’ blood pressure was sky high prompting an immediate ban on coffee, and the prescribing of beta blocking drugs. The doctor was an admiral and didn’t give a damn that his patient was the leader of the free world. He had left his private practice and put on the uniform again to replace his predecessor, killed in Washington DC like so many thousands of others. The President had tried charm and bullying, all to no avail in his attempts to get the physician to leave him alone.

In the end, when the coffee embargo had been declared the President had asked the admiral outright why he was so persistent in making his life difficult.

After a moment the admiral had answered.

“Perhaps I’m just pissed because I voted for the other guy last time around, or maybe I just think your wife is too nice a lady to be a widow….but to get back to the business at hand Mr President, if I see you with coffee one more time I will dump the entire stock down the John, and throw whichever guy or gal who gave it to you in the brig.”

Concerns in the shelter were naturally for the President’s health and welfare, but becoming collateral damage in the caffeine conflict was truly alarming for some of the dedicated worshippers of the little brown bean.

The mug in his hand was at least an assurance that the Java tap had not been turned off in the intervening hours.

“Mr Jones is waiting for you in the conference room, sir.”

Henry straightened up, rubbed his eyes and ran a hand over his chin. There were the first signs that he should shave again at the first opportunity before the heads of the bristles that were just beginning to appear had a chance to develop into a five o’clock shadow.

General Shaw had never had the good fortune, or looks, that had early bristles looking ‘cool’ on him, they always appeared more disreputable than ‘designer’.

Terry Jones looked up at the electronic buzzing that heralded the arrival of the United States Marine Corps top soldier.

“Good morning Mr Jones.” Henry mumbled, a portable electric shaver restoring order for the time being.

“Pardon me but a chin follicle massacre was required.”

He silenced the device with a flick of a switch on its side and ran fingertips over his lower face, inspecting the results.

“I remember the very first flop house hotel I stayed at.” Henry said conversationally.

“On my first ever weekend pass from Parris Island I caught a bus over to Beaufort where I could get gloriously drunk and sleep it off in peace. The landlady pushed the register over the desk for me to complete and asked if I had a good memory for faces?…well I naturally asked her why and she replied…”

“There’s no shaving mirror.” Terry finished the story for him.

Henry laughed. “Oh, I see you stayed there too?”

Terry was smiling back, but the smile did not reach his eyes.

“No, I was never in the service and I think our lives have taken us on pretty different courses General, and that doesn’t make for too much common ground, shared experiences or mutual friends.” His look was steely, and the crocodile smile remained.

Henry seated himself opposite, to all intents unaware that the CIA Directors remark was anything but a casual observation.

“There was Scott, I liked that young man.”

Terry Jones did not reply immediately, his eyes remained unblinkingly on Henry.

“Yes, indeed.” He eventually allowed. “There was Scott Tafler.”

“So what is occurring now that could not wait until the Presidents next briefing?” Henry asked.

Terry at last looked away and used a remote to switch on the plasma screen at the foot of the long table.

There was a segment of a cable news programme regarding Argentina’s claims to have responded to an attack on one of their maritime patrols by sinking a pair of surfaced submarines.

Henry didn’t dog the news channels, despite them often bearing bad tidings well before the intelligence services got wind that there was even a problem.

Scraps of uniform and a short length of hose had been recovered from the surface of the ocean and were displayed for the cameras. The hose bore stencilled Cyrillic lettering and the uniform items had been identified as being of Russian and Chinese manufacture.

“This footage is from the Argentinian aircrafts cameras.” Said Terry as the item drew to a close.

It was a very grainy view, made worse by the weather conditions and low altitude; two hundred feet below the cameras minimum focus height.

Terry pressed ‘Freeze Frame’, capturing the blurry shapes of the Tuan and the Admiral Potemkin in the harsh magnesium glare of the aircrafts dropped flares. The Chinese Kilo was dwarfed by the bulk of the Russian submarine.

Terry opened a folder and passed over a clutch of still captures from the footage, digitally enhanced and showing the STREAM rig clearly joining the vessels in a replenishment at sea operation.

“Well I’ll be…” Henry shook his head incredulously. “Ingenious little fuckers, aren’t they?”

Terry flipped across a fourth enhanced still and Henry was silent for several minutes as he studied it.

“If you’d just shown me the first three I would have said it was a long range hunting party, but what is this submersible doing here…do they have a sub down somewhere down that way?”

Henry then looked up and glanced around as if realising for the first time that the two of them were alone. He turned the photograph over and saw its point of origin was Naval Intelligence, not the CIA.

He looked up at Terry, noting the stare and that cold half smile had returned.

The CIA was briefing the military on something the military were already aware of, and furthermore it would be aired by the navy in a few hours’ time for the President with Henry present.

“You want to tell me what this is all about? Why am I really here Mr Jones?”

“Well, that is indeed the sixty four thousand dollar question isn’t it?” Terry said. “What are you doing here, General?”

Henry stood, looking across the table at Terry.

“Well I’m not playing mind games with a spook when I could be sleeping, that’s for sure and certain, Jones.”

He crossed the room to the door but before he could turn the handle Terry Jones spoke again.

“I liked Scott too, and if I had been in London last week I sure as hell would have been present when his killers were picked up…so I have to ask you Henry, what was it that you were doing that night which was so all fired important that you stayed away, huh?”

General Henry Shaw paused momentarily, looking at the CIA Director and returning his stare before turning the handle and departing.

General Shaw had a small bunk all to himself with a locking door to add a little security for sensitive papers. It wasn’t as if sneak thieves were likely to be a problem in such a facility though.

A standard metal lined documents case held what papers Henry kept, and that sat below the single metal framed bed.

On arriving back at the bunk Henry reach beneath the bed and drew out the case, lifting it and checking that its locks were still secure. Satisfied, he crouched to slide it back in its place and that is when he paused, seeing the faded beer mat that was no longer with its five brothers inside an internal compartment, laying where it had fallen unnoticed during an otherwise professional search.

Well before dawn the 43^rd Motor Rifle Regiment had oriented towards the south west in hastily prepared positions, guarding against a possible counter attack by NATO. They were now three miles inland and five from the bridgehead, out of earshot of the roaring of engines as tanks, APCs, self-propelled guns and all the hardware of armoured warfare crossing the ribbon bridges to the western bank of the Elbe.

At the bridgehead a tenth bridge had just been completed. By the time dawn arrived a further five would also be carrying the weight of the Sixth Shock and Tenth Tank Armies fighting and support units as they moved forward into the offensive.

As yet no work had begun on the autobahn bridge; the combat engineers were still clearing the booby traps left by NATO, a dangerous task at the best of times but doubly so now in the dark. The platoon of engineers tasked to perform the clearance had already lost three men, one dead and two wounded, but had no option but to continue. The schedule called for prefabricated bridging sections to be laid between the spans starting at first light, and to that end a detachment of field police were ensuring that the engineers did not waver from their explosive ordnance clearance duties.

In order to fulfil the role the planners of this campaign envisaged, Colonel Lužar’s regiment had been re-equipped with whatever equipment had been left over after the two, mainly Russian, armies spearheading the drive to the channel had been refitted. His battalions consisted of a mixed bag of MBTs and APCs of differing types and marks. The latest types to be added to the regiment’s inventory were not new; indeed his own command tank wore the tell-tale signs of previously having been knocked out. A crudely patched area on the outside of the turret had its twin on the inside, an area of scorched metal and blistered paint

His battalions’ main battle tank companies now consisted of T-62, T-72, T-80Bs and T-80Us, plus the inferior T-90s. As for his APC companies, well they were also a mixture of BDRMs, BMP1s, 2s and 3s with ancient BTR-60s in evidence here and there. It was hardly a first class unit anymore but he had been assured that NATO units were in a worse state, and any moves made against him would be half-hearted efforts.

Only one company of his faithful PT-76 amphibious tanks remained of the battalion he had first attempted to force the Elbe with. The survivors had been reformed into one large company the next day. So many of his men had fallen that night without knowing that they were merely a diversionary attack, a side show to divert reserves from being able to repel the Red Army’s main effort, which itself had proved a long drawn out affair and an eventual failure.

For Colonel Lužar the shooting of the other unit commanders after that night had been monstrous, they had not been expected to succeed and yet they died for failing.

Thus far Colonel Lužar had not seen a single enemy fighting vehicle and the only reaction to their presence had been several artillery strikes. Taking all things into account the resistance they had met had been pathetic, although the artillery had been highly accurate, and up to that time he had begun to wonder if they had killed all of NATOs brave young men and women, and the rest had run away.

To his right sat the charred remains of a BRDM infantry fighting vehicle. Flames still flickered in the molten rubber of what had been its tyres. An entire infantry section had perished with the vehicle and its crew, without so much as firing a single shot. It was just one of the eleven AFVs he had lost in that thirty minute attack, and the way the enemy fire had been corrected, to walk across fighting positions pointed to the presence of a spotter in close proximity.

Patrolling had discovered the spotter’s location in the ruins of a building only 300m in front of the colonel’s own position, but sloppy command and control by the infantry patrol’s commander had left an escape route open. His infantry came under effective automatic fire from the ruins, which allowed the enemy troops to slip away in pairs until only a single weapon remained. Frustrated by the lack of aggression shown by his infantry, Lužar had ordered his own vehicle forward to break the impasse, but if he had thought the sight of his approaching T-80UK command tank was going to intimidate the remaining enemy soldier he was mistaken. The enemy soldier had continued to pin down the infantry with short economic bursts, buying more time for his comrades to make good their escape. Lužar had been forced to drop down inside the turret to avoid the fire directed his way, after which his gunner had fired a single main gun round into the ruins, silencing the weapon.

Colonel Lužar had left the tank after unclipping from its storage place an AMD 65, the tank crews folding stock version of the AKM. His loader, similarly armed, had accompanied him into the ruins where Lužar had half hoped to find his enemy still alive. It had taken courage to remain there all alone and in the knowledge that the best you could hope for was to be captured once your ammunition ran out, but you had to be a real optimist to count on that as an outcome.

His enemy had been lying face down in the rubble, one leg at an unnatural angle and the material of the camouflage trousers soaked in blood. Lužar gently rolled him over onto his back and using a penlight he’d looked at the face of a young man in his early twenties. One side of the soldier’s head had a strange uneven look about it; the result of being crushed by flying masonry but the colonel had felt for a pulse anyway. The half lidded, dead eyes stared back at him as Lužar had looked him over. The uniform and equipment were British, and he had read the name on the tag above his victim’s breast pocket before removing the 9mm Glock from its webbing holster on the dead soldiers fighting order.

Returning to his command tank he had climbed inside and closed the hatch, turning up the internal lighting before unloading the pistol and stripping it for inspection. He’d found the weapon had been recently cleaned and lightly oiled, which were hardly the actions of demoralised troops at the verge of breaking. With the lighting doused once again Lužar had unbuttoned the hatch and watched the infantry place inside a shallow grave the body of 2Lt Reed. J, Royal Artillery.

Back in the here and now the colonel was still mulling over the significance of apparently well-trained and motivated troops, and their conspicuous absence from the field.

The van passed through the talkative baker’s hamlet, the buildings all in darkness and not a soul was in sight. So far the roads had been empty of civilian traffic that were for once complying with the curfew, thanks to the extra militia drafted in from surrounding regions, but those extra men not employed on enforcing the curfew, they were committed to the house searches and cordoning suspect areas such as the forest the van was heading for.

Five miles from the edge of the forest, the van turned onto a farm track and from then on its passengers were treated to a rough ride. Caroline powered down the laptop she had been plotting their course on, it was impossible to work whilst being jolted about. True to his word the contact knew another way, the network of tracks linking the fields of various farms, but after two miles in low gear the engine was overheating badly and the makeshift repairs on the hose gave out. Steam enveloped the van, preceded by a loud report as the hose burst and followed by curses from the driver’s cab.

They arrived at the airstrip tired and muddy, having crawled along a ditch to avoid a pair of sleepy militiamen. Any hopes of rest were dashed when Caroline and Patricia were informed that their target was to be attacked as soon as possible

Black, oily smoke rose above the emergency landing field as Lt Col Arndeker turned onto finals and brought the speed down to 160knots. Without any effort on his half, the flaperons lowered in response to the lower speed setting and Arndeker peered ahead. There was a lot of activity on the grass to the left of the single runway. Fire trucks were clustered together near a burning aircraft but it was too far to yet see anything more.

A country lane, bordered by hedgerows, ran across the bottom of the landing field and Arndecker’s F-16 passed a few feet above it before touching down. He had seen the fresh scars in the grass as he had gotten closer to the field, pointing like a finger to the wreck, which he now identified as a German Tornado F3. It had apparently slid along on its belly for some distance before performing a ground loop, ending up on its back and facing the way it had come. Silver suited firemen on two of the fire trucks were pumping foam from nozzles mounted above the driver’s cabs, covering the aircraft in a white shroud. Arndeker swept past, getting a momentary glimpse of two bodies, covered from head to foot by blankets, laid out side by side next to one of the fire trucks.

Turning off the runway he followed the perimeter track around the field, passing the mobile control shack before turning off onto a prefabricated road made of perforated aluminium strips that led to an orchard. Amongst the trees were parked a dozen aircraft, which like him had run low on fuel and now awaited the field’s solitary fuel bowser.

Arndeker’s eyebrows rose as an airman guided him to a spot next to an aircraft wearing the Triple Crown insignia of Sweden. Having intervened in the Soviet attacks on Norway and the North Cape the Swedish government had back peddled somewhat, aligning itself with NATO ‘in principle’ but ducking the question of committing forces outside of its own borders. The presence of a JAS 39A Gripen indicated something not included in any of the briefings Arndeker had attended.

On shutting down, Arndeker clambered down the ladder an airman had put against his cockpit and took a look at the neighbours. The Gripen was the only Swedish aircraft there; the remainder consisted of another Luftwaffe Tornado, a pair of RAF Jaguars and eight F-16s in the liveries of Norway, the USA, Belgium and The Netherlands.

The airman, a Royal Air Force aircraftman, informed him that the bowser was refilling and that a NAAFI wagon would be coming around with tea and sandwiches. Thanking him he then headed for the cluster of men and women in flight gear sat beneath the Tornado.

None of the American’s was from Arndeker’s squadron but he knew them by name and introductions were made all round. The German’s were grim faced having witnessed the death of two of their squadron mates, and said little. He sat beside the pilot of the Gripen, a good looking blond with high cheekbones and striking blue eyes who introduced herself as Lojtnant Ulrika Jorgensen. Ulrika’s flight had been responsible for taking out the Red Air Forces AWAC cover far behind the Elbe, clearing the way for airborne drops. It was the first Arndeker had heard that NATO had taken offensive action, and he thanked her and her country for finally stepping beyond the border. Her response had been curious, laughing and telling him he had better make the most of it because the air force would as like as not be behind bars this time tomorrow. He was about to ask what she’d meant by that but the promised NAAFI arrived and there was a scramble to be at the head of the line. Over plastic cups of sweet tea and cheese sandwiches, which the RAF crews called ‘mouse meat sarnie’s’, they had all described their experiences of that morning. Arndeker congratulated Ulrika on the Il-76 and Mig-31 she had brought down that morning, bringing her score to three when added to a Flogger bagged on the day the Soviet’s had overflown her country to attack Norway.

Arndeker himself had brought down his fourteenth enemy aircraft and the thirteenth of this conflict. On being scrambled before dawn he had led his entire squadron, numbering just seven aircraft, against a Red Air Force regiment heading for the main highways from Antwerp. For the first time in two weeks they had taken to the air fully loaded with ordnance, courtesy of the newly arrived convoy from the States. Being able to carry more than just one AMRAAM per sortie had been a joy to the NATO pilots and an unwelcome shock to the red fliers who had become accustomed to their opponents increasingly limited offensive capabilities.

His F-16s had broken up the formations of strike aircraft before their escorts had intervened and from there on in it had become a fur ball. Arndeker’s wingman, a young woman from Idaho, had been on her second mission had mid-aired with a Mig-29. The two aircraft had exploded, the wreckage locked together in an obscene embrace as they’d fallen towards the German countryside. Arndeker had watched until they disappeared into low cloud but no parachutes had appeared.

His last AIM-9L had been a clear miss, defeated by a combination of his intended victims ECM suite and some damn fine flying. He’d lost contact with the rest of the squadron and was almost entirely defensive, loosing off snap shots at fleeting targets of opportunity until a Mig-29 had unwisely shown him its rear end, flying straight and level for just a little too long and offering a minimum deflection shot. He had put a long burst of cannon into it, watching the shells explode in a line from the tip of its port wing to the wing root. The wing had folded up, sending the aircraft into a spin. Just before entering the low cloud that had swallowed his wingman an object shot clear of the crippled aircraft before blossoming into a parachute. Finally with his HUD warning him of a fuel state approaching critical and a pair of Mig-31s, also shy of air-air ordnance but hard on his tail, he’d dived for the ground somewhere north of Duisburg, losing them in the ground clutter.

Everyone there had similar tales to tell, but not in the tones of bravado, rather in a matter-of-fact manner that sounded almost bored.

All the aircrew in the orchard, with the exception of the Swedish flier, were showing the signs of fatigue, a weariness that ran as deep as the bones and permeated the nerves. It was the result of flying ever more sorties each day as losses reduced the numbers of men and women available to fly the missions. It was also through watching that band of colleagues who had been the core of the squadron, thin out or disappear altogether, leaving the survivors to wonder when it would be they who failed to come back.

By unspoken agreement the talk of combat and lost friends petered out, turning instead to peacetime flying, famous gaffs, non-fatal yet spectacular screw-ups and the like. For a time at least the war was pushed aside, replaced by the laughter the recounting of these tales and anecdotes caused.

The fuel truck returned, its own bowser now refilled and the small international tea party finished up the lukewarm beverage and the sandwiches that were curling up at the edges.

Arndeker was the last in line and the other aircraft had already departed by the time the fuel truck had given him enough to get back to his own field. He was alone in the orchard and the warmth of the other flier’s spirits had departed this place. There was eeriness about it now and he was eager to be gone. Fifteen minutes later he was airborne again and heading home at treetop height to avoid trouble.

Australia’s immensely long coastline had but eighty thousand full time and reserve personnel of the Australian Defence Force to guard it against invasion at the outbreak of war, but this had swollen to two hundred thousand men and women under arms. In addition they welcomed others to the task.

Japanese, Taiwanese and Singaporean personnel wore a French design behind their cap badges, a fleur-de-lis, signifying volunteers from Chinese occupied counties. These were in main service personnel who had escaped in order to fight on when their own countries surrendered to the People’s Republic of China. There was even a Moro commando brigade in training near Brisbane, its instructors were Australian SAS as a deal of suspicion existed between the available US instructors and the Muslim’s from Mindanao in the Philippines.

Two divisions of the US 2^nd Army, plus air and sea assets, had arrived from evacuated South Korea and a further division from the USA, 5^th Mechanised. Along with major units of the US Pacific Fleet this went a good way to having a credible defence force to face off the invasion force that was heading their way.

3^rd Marine Expeditionary Force and the majority of the former USFJ army and air force units relocated to New Zealand from Japan.

There were no force relocations from Taiwan. All US units that had fought on the island had perished along with the Taiwanese armed forces on that last terrible day.

A very small component from the British Army was also present in Australia, albeit accidentally despite the current British Defence Minister’s attempts to spin it as largess.

Four British Mk2E Challenger main battle tanks of the 1RTR, Royal Tank Regiment, were sat in hull down positions on the high ground above the Princes Highway and Kembla Grange Racecourse, the temporary ‘home’ of the 5^th Mechanised Division, to which the troop of British tanks, an infantry platoon of 3^rd Battalion Royal Green Jackets and support troops were attached.

The division had the daunting task of defending a stretch of coastline from the port of Kembla, situated forty miles south of Sydney, to Bateman’s Bay, ninety miles to the south, and west as far as the northern edge of the city limits of Canberra, in all a mere seven hundred and twenty square miles.

Officially the British troops were part of the divisional reserve and therefore had no pre-prepared forward fighting positions.

Having been at Fort Hood on exercise ‘Commanche Lance’ at the outbreak of war the small British contingent known as unofficially as ‘The Queen Elizabeth’s Combat Team’ had embedded with their hosts, the 52^nd Infantry, for a return to Europe via Atlantic convoy’s with 5^th (US) Mechanised Division but the division had been turned around on reaching the docks in Texas and entrained again to be sent west as reinforcements for Australia.

‘Heck’, Captain Hector Sinclair Obediah Wantage-Ferdoux, RTR, Lt Tony McMarn, RGJ and Captain Danny King, their US liaison, walked together across the dusty and uneven hilltops west side of Ian McLennan Park, a bike scrambling and off-road dirt track area beside a football ground and small covered spectators stand, the home of the South Coast United Soccer Club.

In appearance the hill was spookily similar to that of an ancient Briton hill fort of the stone age, the camouflaged twenty first century armoured fighting vehicles whose barrels poked outwards at its crest somewhat at odds with that. However, as the Brits had dug in they had found nothing to excite viewers of the Discovery Channels ‘Ancient Aliens’ but plenty of evidence of landfill. The terraced sides engineered for stability rather than defence.

Both officers carried mess tins, mugs and ‘scoffing rods’, knife, fork and spoon clanking in one hand as they headed over to the covered football stand to join the breakfast queue.

The stand was the cookhouse and feeding area for the combat team, the changing rooms were the ‘barracks’ for the cooks and REME L.A.D, Light Aid Detachment, and the car park sported a covered workshop constructed of scaffolding with a ‘wriggly tin roof’, which means ‘corrugated metal sheeting’ to civilians.

“So we have a spare barrel and a bunch more rounds per tank?” Tony asked.

When the Australian Defence Force was looking to replace its ageing German Leopard 1s it had tested the contender’s main armament. The German Leopard 2s L44 main armament also ‘gunned’ the US M1A1 Abrahms, and an L44 was tested for comparison beside the British L30 tank gun. The rifled British gun could throw a HESH, shaped charge road, 8,000 metres, a full five miles, with great accuracy and twice the range of the smoothbore German gun. But accessibility to spares and upgrades from the other side of the Pacific as opposed to the other side of the planet was a factor in Australia’s choosing the American tank over the German and British MBTs. It also meant that in a magazine in Darwin there was sat 144 rounds of ammunition left over from that testing.

Heck’s troop of Challenger 2s had arrived in Australia with just their ‘Front Line loads’ of forty nine rounds per tank and the commander of 5^th Mech, ‘Duke’ Thackery, had little use for the Brits other than as a forlorn hope and as casualty replacements as the Abrahms and Challengers ammunition was not compatible.

“In the big scheme of things we have thirty six reloads per vehicle, which is good for one engagement perhaps…still, it’s better than jack-all, isn’t it?” Heck responded.

“Not enough for General Thackery to change his plans. You are still a throw away quick reaction force to plug any penetrations.”

“Throw away?” Heck muttered aloud. “Penetrations?” he continued. “I am not sure I like the parallels with those of a ‘spent johnnie’.” he concluded.

Danny frowned.

“Pardon?”

“A used, prophylactic.” Tony informed him.

They joined the end of the queue, standing behind Sergeant Rebecca Hemmings and Master Sergeant Bart Kopak. Rebecca still wore a drawn look on her otherwise pretty features. Becoming a widow early on in the war was not a matter that she had fully come to terms with yet, but the ever hopeful Bart was there if and when she did.

Bart was ‘not on rations’ with the British unit anymore. They no longer warranted a liaison team, just Danny King the captain from the 11^th Armoured Cavalry. The three officers were aware of the situation but none of them made any comment. Rebecca and Bart were good people.

The line shuffled on, closer to the heavy ‘ Hay Boxes’, the insulated metal containers for transporting cooked food to the troops. Such containers had once been lined with dried straw to retain the heat and as such the name ‘Hay Box’ had remained.

Eventually each officer was served and found a spot to sit together in the stands to eat.

A slice of fried bread, a fried sausage, a fried egg, two tinned tomatoes, half a dozen tinned mushrooms and a half ladle of baked beans.

Be it Chelsea Barracks or Camp Bastion, Catterick or Kembla, the high cholesterol breakfast was an even surer sign than a bugler sounding reveille that the British Army had started a new day.

A day, which had started badly, was steadily getting worse for the deputy commander of Militia Sub-District 178. His boss had been slightly vocal when the men had not been in position and ready to go a half hour before dawn, rather vocal when the dawn came and no move was made, and screaming dire threats into radio microphones thirty minutes after that.

The trouble was, the thousand and twelve men they had were policemen, not soldiers, and lining them up twenty feet apart along the forest’s edge was not as easy as it sounded.

Shortly after they had stepped off, the real difficulties had become evident. Gaps appeared where men elected not to push through heavy brush, but rather to walk around. Men walked alongside friends chatting, and where the going was easy the line surged forward, leaving others struggling through underbrush far behind.

It was not happening as the sub district commander had envisaged, the evenly spaced line of his briefing was not going to sweep evenly along at three miles an hour, uncovering the killers as it flushed them from hiding, and apparently it was all his deputy’s fault.

The commander had been unwilling to listen to other opinions, which was nothing new; he was an arrogant individual at the best of times.

The deputy had put forward the possibility that the culprits could have put a lot of distance between themselves and the scene of their crime, which was why the search of farms and buildings in the region had come up empty, and why the reconnaissance helicopter the previous day had not uncovered any clusters of skulking humanity in the trees of the forest.

His opinions and theories carried little weight at the best of times, and these earned him a contemptuous rebuke.

The deputy had initially been in charge of the line of militiamen, then humiliated in front of the men by his superior when all did not go according to plan, he had been despatched instead with two BMP-1s to check on the men cordoning the forest.

It had taken an hour for the deputy to accept that he was better off away from the line of ‘beaters’ because things would only get even more fraught as time went on. His boss, the commander, was an idiot and what is more everyone knew he was an idiot, so what did it matter that he had treated his deputy like an imbecile in front of the lowest ranks? All he had to do was ensure there were no problems with the cordons, and generally keep his head down for the duration of the operation. It would take several days to comb through the forest so he would take the opportunity to enjoy the time away from the overbearing buffoon who held the next rank, savour the independence and autonomy whilst he had the chance.

The deputy commander directed the driver of his vehicle to head for the nearest roadblock, after that he would look at the map for the best way through the forest. An easily navigable route would cut time off the journey from one side to the other, and would serve to avoid crossing the commander’s path.

Those men engaged in the preparation of the Cadre’s ‘accommodation’ were stripped down to just their arctic white smocks, which were providing only camouflage, not warmth, in the sub-zero temperature. Despite the freezing air the men were warm from tunnelling into the snow, and had removed upper layers of clothing to prevent sweat forming.

Richard worked along with them, preparing the location for an indefinite stay, or at least until all the pieces were in place, and the attack could go ahead. The major knew nothing of the other elements involved, and had he been asked about Operation Equalizer or Operation Guillotine he would have shrugged his shoulders and asked in all truthfulness what they were. He wasn’t a fool though and knew that in all probability there had to be at least one other operation working toward achieving the mission’s ultimate aim. Logic dictated that there had to be an operation running to take out the PRCs other means of waging intercontinental nuclear war, that of the submarine threat. He had spent many hours aboard submarines during his career, but always as a passenger enroute to or from some covert operation or other, he had no idea how they would go about finding China’s vessels in the Pacific and Indian Oceans. Driving submarines was a complete mystery to him, and yet some people were remarkably good at it, as testified by the blinking ‘message’ light he had just noticed on his communicator.

When Richard had been a boy of four his parents had bought him a Scotty, a Highland Terrier that Richard had named Jack. There hadn’t been anything particularly outstanding about the animal but it had been his first dog and therefore memorable to Richard alone. The message, once decompressed and decrypted comprised of a single word, the name of Richards very first pet. He was a little taken aback at having received the Go word so soon; it was after all just a few hours since the bulk of the force had departed for the extraction point. A few men rolled their eyes skywards, having come near to completing their snow holes only to be informed that they were now to ‘paste up, patch up and piss off’, but no one complained aloud. The entrenching tools were packed away and warm clothing was once more pulled on,

The batteries in the RERs and laser designators were almost brand new but Richard had them changed anyway, before he led the Cadre out, back along the ridge and abseiling down to the canyon floor at the avalanche site. There was nothing left to indicate that troops had been there, except of course the small holes in the rock wall where the pitons had been driven in. Once the snow thawed it would doubtless uncover the bodies of the two dead men, the smashed equipment and abandoned kit, but for now the still falling snow was covering over all signs that men had passed this way.

The Cadre crossed the canyon and scaled the face on the opposite side without a single appearance by PRC helicopter patrols. Richard wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth, if the PRC aircrew felt the weather was unsafe to fly in then that suited him just fine. He knew that the enemy now was time, getting clear of the area before the manhunt began in the wake of the, hopefully, successful attacks on the silos. Once they had cleared this particular ridge and the valley beyond then their chances of successful evasion were greatly increased. With luck Garfield’s men and the Mountain Troop contingent would already have gotten the injured men across this ridge and down to the valley floor. Richard was not about to break a radio silence maintained since setting foot in China, they would find out how well Garfield had done when they caught up with them. He wanted to be on the valley floor before midnight and across it before the dawn, which would mean some gruelling cross-country skiing. Passing the word that there would be no rest stops tonight; Richard led the men past the site where they had weathered the blizzard, and onwards toward the valley.

Commanding 3^rd Shock Army’s point Division was a fifty two year old Romanian from Piatra Neamt, in the foothills of the Carpathian Mountains. He had been a Lt Col commanding an artillery battalion during the last years under Ceausescu and had never envisaged reaching Staff rank; all those places had been earmarked years in advance for officers from Romania’s communist elite. With the fall of the tyrant however, the new government deemed him too lowly in rank to be tainted by association, and yet capable enough to handle the responsibility of a sudden elevation in rank, in order to help fill the vacuum created by the former general staff’s sudden retirement.

The division he led today was a different creature to the one he had brought over to the communist cause during the coup that had preceded this war; over a third of the original number had become casualties to NATO’s fierce defence by the time his division had reached the Spee. Originally the division had consisted of a reconnaissance regiment, a tank regiment and three MRRs, motor rifle regiments, each made up of three battalions; a rotary wing aviation battalion, an artillery regiment consisting of a heavy, a medium and air defence battalions, plus the usual engineering and logistic support units. All had been native Romanians, and a full two thirds had at least two years recent service under their belts. NATO had almost annihilated his reconnaissance regiment and all that had remained were two companies worth of men and vehicles, which had lately been reinforced and brought up to the size of a superannuated battalion. Shortly after reaching the Spee the division had been taken out of the line and sent to the rear to reconstitute, his three battered motor rifle regiments had amalgamated to become two, and the tank regiment now numbered two battalions instead of three. The arrival of a Czech and a Bulgarian MRR to bolster the division’s ranks had been a mixed blessing because it caused distinct communications problems, but they were already blooded and were therefore preferable to units consisting of green conscripts. Cold bloodedly, the division commander had assigned the Bulgarian’s the duty of walking point where NATO could dull its edge, and once the newcomers had become combat ineffective as a unit it would be broken up and absorbed by his Romanians whilst the Czechs took up point position and remained there until a similar fate befell them. It did not occur to him that the commander of 3^rd Army had been thinking along exactly the same lines when he written his own orders, using the Romanian division as the expendable tip of a mainly Russian spear.

At a midnight O Group the division commander had deployed his Romanian MRRs, the 111^th and 112^th, on the left and right rear of the Czechs, who were to follow directly behind the Bulgarians. His tank regiment, the 93^rd, was to follow on behind and in this fashion the tanks would be in position to exploit any breaches that might appear, passing through the lead units to either widen the breach or to punch deep into the enemy’s rear. The division’s axis of advance took them straight at a linear feature that lay like a natural barrier to the all-important Autobahns to the English Channel. According to his maps this feature was called Vormundberg, and according to intelligence it was occupied by a ragtag unit of British and Americans with a forward screen of French and British light troops, which he had described to his officers at the final O Group as, ‘hardly something to lose any sleep over’. It was therefore with a degree of optimism that the O Group had broken up and his officers had returned to their units to deliver their own orders. A large bite had been taken out of that optimism a few hours later, just as the division was about to jump off. NATO launched massed air raids on the Soviet armour west of the Elbe and for reasons unbeknownst to the division commander their own air cover had been conspicuously absent. As a result, all of the divisions units had taken casualties but the Bulgarians, being at the forward edge, had been hit particularly hard and had taken 70 % casualties, including their regimental headquarters. Under threat of arrest from his own superior the divisional commander had been forced to abandon the casualties, policing up the remainder and revising his plans so that the Czech regiment lead the way.

After the first forty minutes of an unchallenged advance he had felt some of the earlier optimism restore itself. At the top of a rise he had dismounted from his command vehicle to look back along the way they had come and was moved by the awesome spectacle that met his gaze. His unit may have been under strength but it was still impressive for all that, and beyond his divisions vehicles he could see those of other units, but as moving dots against the landscape. Surely NATO had nothing left with which to deny them their march to the coast? But five minutes later Milan missiles and expertly called in air strikes had begun exploding his precious reconnaissance vehicles.

Reports from the roving troublemakers of 2REP, 2e Regiment Etranger de Parachutiste’s Anti-Tank Platoon, and the Anti-Tank Guided Weapons Troop of 40 Commando RM, had charted the progress of Third Shock Army’s lead elements as they advanced westwards away from the Elbe. The French Foreign Legion paratroopers and the Royal Marine Commandos had used every opportunity to inflict harm and delay upon the enemy. Wire guided anti-tank rounds and air strikes called in by the NATO troops shredded the reconnaissance screen that preceded the armoured units, forcing the enemy to deploy forward other fighting vehicles to plug the gaps in the screen. The larger fighting vehicles were no substitute for the smaller, quieter and more agile specialist reconnaissance vehicles and were easy prey to the Milans of the French and British. Battle tanks costing millions of roubles were left burning in the fields and roads, falling victim to soft skinned vehicles that cost mere thousands. To counter this, the Soviet’s called in helicopter gunships to ride shotgun and range ahead of the tanks, and where they caught the NATO troops in the open the helicopters 23mm cannons tore up both the un-armoured vehicles and crewmen alike. The next air battle began as a direct result, with the marines and paratroopers calling for CAPs to deal with the threat from the air and the Soviet rotary wing crews quickly doing likewise once air-to-air missiles began thinning them out.

Arndeker was listening to events taking place overhead but not getting involved in the dogfights. He was at 150 ft. and banking to the left to follow the contours of a hill whilst keeping an eye out for a chimney stack on the horizon. The chimney was a visual marker, once seen he would steer a few degrees to the right of it until he reached a disused and weed choked canal which he could follow, making use of the man-made defile’s cut for it through the low hills. It would bring himself and the four F-16s with him down the right flank of the enemy armoured thrust heading for the autobahn. The mission called for them to RV with two flights of three Swedish Gripen’s and following hot on the heels of a Wild Weasel sortie by French Armee de l’air Jaguar, Mirage F-1 and 2000Ds, they were to make as many sweeps of the armoured formations as Arndeker felt were advisable. Right now he felt a suitably safe and appropriate number was probably zero, but he wasn’t able to say what he felt, i.e., “I’m tired of this game and I don’t want to play anymore,” because he was the squadron commander, an officer in the armed forces of his country and the one who set the example for his subordinates to follow. It just wasn’t acceptable to announce that he vomited at the thought of going into combat again, that his nerve was close to being shot, or that it took five fingers of vodka just to get him off to sleep at night. It wasn’t acceptable in the eyes of his peers and it wasn’t acceptable in his own either. Lieutenant Colonel Patrick Arndeker, USAF, loving husband and proud father of two was racing toward burn out and he couldn’t see it, he couldn’t see it because to open his eyes to that possibility was not acceptable either.

This sortie was a maximum effort by his squadron, with all available airframes taking part, and Lt Col Arndeker who had decided to rest his pilots where possible between sorties had no option but to comply. The first mission of the day, intercepting the inbound strike against 4 Corps, had cost the squadron his wingman, and whilst he had been at the emergency field his Exec had led the remainder against a second strike. His Exec had not returned from that one, which left his squadron with exactly five operational airframes left out of the fifteen there had been at the outbreak of the war.

Quite apart from the slowed reactions induced by fatigue, Arndeker had witnessed for himself of late a phenomenon that he had read of in pilots during the First and Second World Wars, that of a recklessness in some of his pilots, as if they were resigned to an untimely end and therefore did little to avoid it, such as flying straight and level through ground fire when they should have been jinking to throw off the gunners aim.

The German hillside flashed past and then he saw the distant concrete column pointing heavenwards. The wings of Arndeker’s F-16 came level and he checked his aircraft were still with him, they were and in anticipation of a right turn to follow the old canal the five moved into an echelon left formation.

Arndeker almost missed the canal, so choked with weed was it that it almost merged with the undergrowth on the banks. He took the flight around in a hard turn to starboard and settled down to just seventy-five feet above it with four aircraft moving into trail behind him.

“Chain Gang lead, this is Lion Dog Zero Three?”

Lion Dog was the call sign of their controller for this gig.

“Go, Dog.”

“Gang, you got Steel Talon, a flight of four Gripens approaching from your 8 o’clock, fifteen miles out.”

“Roger Dog, they’re late and there was supposed to be two fights of three?”

“They got bounced, Gang.”

It was a very clinical way of stating the fifth and sixth aircraft were spread across the countryside somewhere. “Roger Dog, have the French guys adjusted to compensate?”

“Negative Gang, their timetable is not variable so I suggest you continue as planned and on time, but it’s your call.”

The plan called for five different formations of aircraft to arrive over the battlefield at designated times in order to carry out a coordinated attack. The timing was important to maximise the shock effect of the layered defences being stripped away and leaving the enemy armour open to attack. First in were to be the Armee de l’air Mirage F-1s, engaging the Red Air Force Top CAP to allow the Jaguars and Mirage 2000Ds to destroy or force off the air the AAA radars, and by so doing opening the way for Arndeker’s F-16s and the Gripen’s to carry out attacks with Rockeye’s and Gator’s. The window of opportunity would be scarce minutes, in single figures, before the Soviet’s recovered.

Arndeker didn’t want to delay until the Gripen’s arrived and he didn’t want to leave the Swedish fliers to brave the Soviet’s anger on their lonesome either. He informed his flight and the AWAC he was switching frequencies.

“Steel Talon lead this is Chain Gang lead on TAC Six, over?”

After a moment’s delay the Gripens flight leader responded in accented English, and it took a second for Arndeker to realise he had spoken with the owner of that voice only a few hours before.

“Gang this is Talon, sorry for the delay, begin your run without us, we’ll be a couple of minutes late.”

“Talon this is Gang, we will hold for your arrival but we can only make a single pass over the target.”

“Roger Gang, I appreciate that…however, my higher has briefed us for a minimum of four passes.”

On his second radio Arndeker heard the French going in, and they lost an aircraft to ground fire almost immediately.

“Hey Ulrika, I’m sure your higher had no idea you would be delayed, but four passes is way beyond sensible…it’s a bad neighbourhood we’re visiting so hold it down to two passes and we’ll stay with you.”

Talon’s leader knew that the delay would give the Soviet’s the recovery time necessary to concentrate their fire on whoever was in the air, and it was better that their guns be divided up on nine targets rather than four.

“Roger Gang, you got a deal…and again, we do appreciate it.” Arndeker could hear the smile in her voice and felt good about himself for the first time in several days.

His F-16s passed through the final cleft in the hills and he took them in a shallow turn to port, orbiting just above the treetops as they waited for the Gripen’s.

Arndeker listened to the radio chatter; he couldn’t speak French so he tried to judge from the tone of the pilot’s voices how it was going for them.

“Chain Gang lead this is Lion Dog Zero Three, the 2000D’s and Jag’s are doing a first rate job. I’m watching radars going offline all across the target area and I advise you to begin your run now, it doesn’t get much better than this, Gang?”

“Roger Dog, we’ll hold for Talon anyway.”

There was a hint of ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you!’ in the AWAC controllers voice as he acknowledged Arndeker simply.

“Roger”.

If all had gone as planned the Armee de l’Air aircraft would still have been overhead when the Swedish and American aircraft went for the tanks and APCs, but the French had expended all their anti-radar ordnance and were already departing the area as the Gripen’s finally arrived. The two leaders hurriedly agreed on a simple plan to replace the original, the Gripen’s and the F-16s would make a north to south pass over the head of the column in extended line, four hundred metres between aircraft, with the Swedes on the left, they would then all swing left and make the second pass further down the column before egressing to the north.

The American and Swedish aircraft hugged the contours of the earth as they began their approach. Flying below electricity pylons and between trees, they headed for the pillars of black smoke in the distance that marked the positions of the victims of the French HARM missiles. On cue from the AWAC they popped up to 500 feet and began looking for targets of their own on the ground below.

The Wild Weasel sortie by the French had destroyed more than half a dozen AAA vehicles and intimidated the remainder into shutting down their radars, but it had not slowed the armoured advance. The scene that met Lt Col Arndeker was of a countryside crawling with machines of war, and all of them headed west. His first thought was that there were not enough munitions in the armouries of the west to deal with even half of the fighting vehicles spread out before him. Tracer began curling up towards him, travelling slowly at first but seemingly heading right for him. The tracer grew larger as it approached and suddenly seemed to accelerate, only to flash past harmlessly, but Arndeker still hunched his shoulders and tried to make himself smaller. Each F-16 carried a pair of Rockeye II’s, slung in tandem down the centreline hard points and a Gator mine dispenser on each of the inside wing pylons. Arndeker touched the rudder to line up on a company’s worth of tank’s advancing in line abreast and pickled off a single Rockeye. The weapon fell clear of the aircraft before splitting open like a clamshell and releasing the 247 bomblets it contained, which fell like an ever expanding, elongated cloud. He wasn’t aware of what effect the bomblets had, he saw a road crossing ahead of him and selected the portside mine dispenser, leaving a trail of small munitions across the road and the fields either side of it.

Either his sensor suite was malfunctioning or none of the AAA vehicles within engagement range was emitting because the only sounds coming from his earpieces were voices, one female and seven male as the other pilots shouted to one another on the radio. Apart from the tracer there was little in the way of nastiness being directed their way, but the urge to be far from this place was very real. He pickled off his last mines in the path of a mass of self-propelled artillery emerging from a wood, and held his breath until the armoured spearhead had dropped away behind him and only open fields lay ahead. A quick call on his radio confirmed that his wingmen had also emerged unscathed, as had the Gripens, so he felt a lot more comfortable about the next pass.

The nine aircraft turned in a line to the left and then turned north once again, this time with the F-16s on the left. Arndeker found himself flying toward a line of poplars, and pulled back the side stick to clear the tops of the trees. Immediately a loud warbling sound in his headset told him that a SAM radar was illuminating him, and he felt the vibration as his ECM suite automatically punched out chaff. The warble changed, becoming a frantic two-tone siren as the transmitter locked him up. More chaff was ejected and the siren reverted to warble, and then cut out altogether. Arndeker was soaked in sweat and his stomach rebelled, churning in reaction.

Exhaust trails from ground to air missiles criss-crossed the sky, tracer from light, medium and heavy automatic weapons as well as from 23mm cannon slashed in front, beside, and all around the attacking aircraft. An aircraft hit the ground in a welter of fragments, careening through a potato field before exploding, but Arndeker couldn’t tell if it had been American or Swedish and his mouth went dry with the realisation that in the space of mere seconds the hunters had become the hunted. The pilots were shouting warnings to one another over the radio, spotting for one another the deadly ZSUs and mobile SAM launchers, but if they were close enough to identify the vehicles visually they were close enough to be engaged by them and the voices carried a sense of panic.

“Smoke in the air!”

“Watch out for shoulder launchers by the farm!”

“Oh fuck…SAM’s! SAM’s!”

“Zeus on the low hill, Zeus on the low hill!”

“I’m hit! I’m hit! Jesus Chri….”

A warbling returned to his headset and he ejected chaff himself, not waiting for the ECM suite to do the job. He caught his breath as he saw a ZSU-23-4s turret tracking him and kicked the rudder savagely whilst pushing the side stick forward enough to avoid the four seemingly solid streams of 23mm cannon that would otherwise have nailed him.

The warbling in his ears changed to a siren and then became a monotone that turned his blood to ice. His HUD told him a pair of SA-9s had been launched at him, and were guiding on his F-16 despite the chaff and automatic track breakers engaging. To go up into the clouds would only be to invite other launchers to attack as he entered their engagement envelopes, his last manoeuvres had brought him down too low for him to engage in drastic turns so the only direction left to him was downwards even more. Arndeker eased the side stick forwards, and the F-16 sank earthwards until it barely cleared the tops of hedgerows but the tone continued without missing a beat. The chaff was still being discharged, but the bundles were breaking on contact with the ground instead bursting apart in his aircrafts wake. The jet wash and his slipstream did kick up strips and scatter them, the foil strips swirled about before settling to the ground or snagging on branches of bushes and trees, but they did not provide the degree of radar reflection their normal deployment would have achieved. The fear was a physical force within his chest, squeezing his heart and compressing his lungs whilst reaching up to grasp his throat. He caught a brief glimpse of something fast moving that left a trail of dirty white exhaust behind as it passed a few feet above his canopy without exploding, and he looked about frantically for the second missile, where the hell was it! The second missile had flown into a tree but Arndeker was unaware, he never saw it, not a single visual clue as to its whereabouts, and then the warning tone in his ears ceased as the SAM launcher lost radar lock.

Arndeker had heard stories about airmen whose deaths had been so swift that they apparently never realised they were dead, and their shades appeared before the commanders who had sent them to their deaths, shocked and confused and asking for explanations. Arndeker took the flesh of his right bicep between the thumb and index finger of his left hand, squeezing it through the material of his G-suit until the pain made him wince. He let out a gasp of breath in relief but realised three things, firstly his legs were shaking uncontrollably, he had urinated without realising it, and thirdly he was staring at a Soviet tank commander stood upright in a tanks turret and gaping right back at him. It could only have been for the merest fraction of a second but the moment seemed frozen in time. With a start Arndeker realised the F-16 was still slowly losing height and he pulled back on the stick, rocketing up and over the T-80. Arndeker let out a little laugh in relief, but even he could hear the hysteria that edged it. Once back at 500 feet he pickled off his last Rockeye above a mix of tanks and armoured personnel carriers, looking over his shoulder as he did so and noting on the way the holes in his port wing. When the hell had that happened?

He was about to head down again but instead he broke hard left, avoiding by a hairs breadth a mid-air with a flaming comet that cut right across his path. The pilot of the stricken aircraft had an open radio channel, and over the roar of the flames could be clearly heard the pitiable screams of intense pain, the screams of a trapped animal enduring unbelievable searing agony. The burning aircraft wasn’t losing height, if anything it was slowly gaining altitude and prolonging the suffering of its pilot, trapped and burning alive in its cockpit.

Arndeker unplugged his headset, tearing the lead out of its socket to cut off the awful cries before vomiting into his oxygen mask, not just because a human being was being burnt to death, but also because that human being was female. Something else struck his aircraft and this time he felt it, the F-16 lurched with the impact and he snatched away the oxygen mask to spit out the bilious remnants of his breakfast as he waited helplessly for flaming fuel vapour to fill his cockpit too, but nothing happened and no master warning lights flashed.

A red light blinked on the HUD, flashing the symbols ‘00’ next to the Chaff icon. He was out of radar decoys, and on checking the store’s inventory for flares he noted that he had only four of those remaining. His heart was in his mouth as he flew, oblivious to the whereabouts of the rest of the aircraft, determining only to get clear of what had become a waking nightmare.

Without realising it he passed beyond the Soviet armour and was above open country once more, but he was still shaking and in his mind’s eye tracer was still seeking him out. He became aware of an F-16 at his left wingtip, its pilot looking worriedly at him, and beyond that F-16 was a single Gripen that was trailing smoke.

With great effort he pulled himself back to the present, attempting to replace the headset lead in its socket but only succeeding after several abortive tries, his hands just shook too much.

Beside his own aircraft, only the other F-16 and the damaged Gripen had got out. His No.2 was in the aircraft off his port wing, asking him for his situation and for further instructions. Should they make a third run, strafing with cannon, sir?

They had left dozens of enemy fighting vehicles in flames, scattered mines in the paths of others that would blow off tracks and hinder them, but they had not deflected the enemy one single degree from his purpose and the advance was continuing unchecked.

Arndeker could only respond to the radio requests with single syllable answers, and his voice sounded so weak, so frail, that his wingman assumed he had been wounded and took the lead, shepherding his squadron commander toward their home field.

The return flight was uneventful, which was just as well because there was no fight left within Arndeker’s frame. The control tower slotted them for landing in order of damage and injury. The Gripen and its pilot were in no condition to return to Sweden so it accompanied them west to their field. The pilot was losing blood so he entered the pattern first, and Arndeker followed behind him, flying woodenly in jerky motions like a nervous pupil on his first solo.

The Gripen was a quarter of a mile ahead of Arndeker, grey smoke still leaving a thin trail behind it as it let down toward the airfield. There had been a raid whilst the flight had been up, and thick black smoke rose from a dozen places within the facility. The runways had been prime targets for the raid this morning, as they had for previous raids and the longest was now peppered with small craters along a third of its length. A second runway was blocked, and a bulldozer was shoving the still smouldering remains of a Red Air Force Flogger from the tarmac but the runway they were lined up on was intact, and soon they would be safely down once more.

The whine of electric motors announced his gear was lowering, and he felt the triple thumps as the gear locked into place. The flaperon’s extended further as the airspeed bled off, and the F-16 followed the Gripen toward the tarmac.

The Swedish aircraft was above the outer marker when it exploded like a thermite grenade, and Arndeker gawped uncomprehendingly at the fireball, his brain not registering the warning shouts in his headset from the controller and his surviving wingman, or the tracer flashing past from behind, missing widely at first but zeroing in.

His ECM suite was silent, it hadn’t warned him of an approaching enemy because no radar energy was being radiated and no infrared systems had locked him up. They had been caught at their most vulnerable by a pilot who had gone back to basics, relying on nothing more complex than a gun sight projected onto his HUD.

Bangbangbang! The impacts snapped him out of his trance-like state and he realised his danger. He selected Gear Up and pushed the throttle all the way forward to Zone One Afterburner, needing to recover some airspeed fast before he could manoeuvre worth a damn but there was no accompanying kick in the pants. ‘AB Fail’ flashed on the HUD, informing him the Afterburner was non-functional. Bile rose into Arndeker’s mouth, it tasted acrid and he spat it out. His flight suit was already stained with vomit, and in truth he was past caring about such things as appearance. The turbulent wake of a Fulcrum shook the F-16 as it passed above him and to the right, its cannon still firing at him as it overshot. Arndeker looked down toward the Patriot site that guarded the base, but only a blackened, scorched area of earth marked where it had been when he had taken off for this mission, less than an hour before.

His heart was beating a tattoo in his chest as he watched the airspeed build, but far, far too slowly. Any drastic evasive action he took right now would only result in a stall but he tried a shallow bank to the right, to avoid being a sitting duck for anyone else that may be back there.

His F-16 wallowed drunkenly despite his gentle touch on the side stick and rudder, so the Fulcrum had damaged some control surfaces at the very least. He could land, and save his aircraft for the repair shop, or punch out here and now. What remained of his self-esteem rose to the surface and he determined to stay with the machine, to put it down in one piece.

He was at 400 feet as he crossed the airbase perimeter and his airspeed had risen to 200 knots. He couldn’t see the Fulcrum any longer and maybe it had cleared off back to its own lines. Arndeker called up the controller, telling him he was going around before trying to land once more.

230 knots and Arndeker was muttering aloud to himself, mouthing encouragements to the F-16 like a coach egging on a flagging member of a cross-country team.

“Come on, come on, that’s it, good girl, push it a little more, give me a little extra, that’s it, that’s it, not much further now.” The canopy exploded into a thousand fragments and the cannon strikes sounded like a sledgehammer hitting a trashcan as the rounds struck the fuselage. Arndeker screamed in pain and fear as something struck him hard in the side of the chest, he felt ribs snap but then a sheet of flame filled the bottom of the cockpit, lapping around his feet, ankles and lower legs. The Neoprene of his G-suit may be fire proof, but it didn’t prevent him feeling the heat of the flames.

The master fire warning light shone a bright crimson on his panel and the stall warning whooped in his ears as the nose of the F-16 rose drunkenly, announcing its departure from controlled flight and began a sideslip toward the earth. Arndeker blacked out momentarily as the blood was forced from his brain by the acceleration of the ejector seat throwing him clear. He was oblivious to the sudden release of pressure to his shoulders and waist as the safety harness that bound him to his seat fell away, but he registered the nauseous vision of ground then sky, ground then sky, before his parachute opened. At a height of only fifty feet the canopy fully deployed, arresting his head over heels fall to deposit him on the grass beside the far end of the runway, the shrouds of the parachute settling behind him.

It took him a second to realise he was down on the ground and still alive, and he ran his hands over himself as he sought injuries. He felt pain in his chest whenever he breathed; shrapnel from an exploding cannon shell had come through the side of the cockpit but struck the 9mm Berretta he wore in the shoulder harness. The pistol had probably saved his life in a way not intended by the manufacturer, but it would never fire again. Arndeker was peppered with minor wounds from tiny pieces of shrapnel, including shards of Perspex but he was ninety nine per cent good to go, in body at least. There was nothing to prevent the flight surgeon from applying some sticking plasters and marking him fit for duty. He removed the Beretta from its holster and stared at it, perhaps he couldn’t put a round through some fleshy part of his body but maybe he could bludgeon a knee cap, and then they couldn’t make him fly again could they, at least not for a while?

He heard the pounding of feet approaching and looked over his shoulder. Men were running toward him, running past the dispersals in which sat the twisted and the charred skeletons of two A-10s. The blast walls on three sides had not protected them from the liquid fire of napalm.

The wreckage of his own F-16 belched smoke and flame a few hundred metres away and at the opposite end of the runway the Gripen burned fiercely, whilst in the field beyond was another burning F-16, that of his wingman. He was a squadron commander without a squadron, a pilot without an aircraft to fly or any nerve remaining to fight. The nearest man was too close now for him to be able to incapacitate himself without what he saw as his own cowardice being plainly obvious. He allowed the damaged firearm to fall from his fingers and sat, with shoulders slumped in abject despair.

The stresses of this day of days showed upon everyone present in the room.

All stood as the President entered and took his seat, waving everyone down.

“Sit, everyone please sit.”

General Shaw remained upstanding, his briefing notes laid out before him with thick red marker pen annotations here and there.

“Mr President?”

“Go ahead General.” The President wagged a message slip in his hand.

“I got this a couple of minutes ago so start with Guiana, how bad is it and how badly does it screw up Guillotine?”

A map of South America appeared on the screen behind Henry and he cleared his throat.

“As you are aware Mr President, the ESA facility on the equator has been attacked but it was not a result of a security leak?”

Henry addressed the President’s question by bringing up the aerial photographs of the surfaced Typhoon and Kilo. His eyes flicked momentarily to the CIA director but Terry ignored the look.

“No Mr President, there is no possible way that this attack could have been put together within the timeframe of our formulating Guillotine.” He pointed to the huge Russian submarine.

“This is a Typhoon, that is to say that ‘Typhoon’ is NATO’s designation for Russia’s largest class of submarines carrying ICBMs. However this one has been extensively modified to provide at sea refuelling and replenishment for diesel electric submarines such as this Kilo class beside it.”

The picture altered to the computer enhanced photograph that clearly showed the fuelling hose connecting both vessels.

The next photograph was of the submersible upon the Kilo’s rear casing.

“These were taken a week ago by an Argentinian P3 Orion out of Tierra del Fuego which attacked and sank both vessels. But the sinking’s were only made public after a delay of several days.”

The President stared long and hard at the photograph on the screen.

“What is the sailing time for a diesel submarine from China?”

“Three to four weeks the cross the Pacific with refuelling along the way, Mr President.” Henry replied.

“The conversion of the Typhoon was most certainly carried out pre-war sir, so it is entirely possible that this was being planned as long ago as two years.” He did not need to add that the infiltration by Chinese intelligence agents had made discovery of this preparation by the NSA or CIA highly unlikely.

At last the President nodded, satisfied that their best hope was not already doomed.

“The attack failed and we can still provide satellite support, sir.” General Shaw assured him.

“I spent a half hour on the phone with the French Premier.” The President said. “I have to say that I was having trouble reading his reaction. I expected Gallic rage but he was surprisingly reticent for someone who has almost had some of his sovereign territory nuked, he certainly seems to be taking it better than I did.” The President had a gut feeling that the French were not likely to just shrug off a nuclear attack, even one that had been defeated.

“Our people in Russia almost had the difficulty factor of their mission doubled Joseph, so look at it from that angle instead.” The President took a sip of water.

“Now, as you will notice there are just we few of us members of the choir present, so go ahead Terry, the floor is all yours?”

Terry smiled at the President.

“Did you ever get one of those discs through the mail from a company offering free Internet time, where you load the disc into your PC and it connects you to the company’s server?”

It had taken a little longer than Terry Jones had predicted for the secrets of the CD-ROM to give themselves up.

The President nodded in agreement to Terry’s question of course; there had been a time when the things had been a modern day plague with the postman delivering the unsolicited offerings from various competing companies almost daily.

“Well this disc lets us in through a backdoor to the PRC’s space and satellite program.” Terry held the item aloft.

“Is this true?”

“Yes sir, indeed it is, however as a spook I prefer this feature………..” The plasma screen on the wall of the briefing room had been showing western Germany and the positions of the opposing units; it now changed to depict the Philippines and events there from the Peoples Republic’s perspective.

“Oh my word…” The President found himself on his feet without consciously rising from his seat.

“How are we seeing this, how is this possible…can we look at all area’s their forces are engaged in?”

“Each operation is password protected but they can be cracked, as we have in fact already begun to do.” Terry pointed out.

“The late and probably very little lamented Comrade Peridenko, was no fool Mister President. I have already said that I think he was planning a coup, and I now think he was planning on dissolving the partnership with China once he had attained the Premiership. This disc could give a wise man one hell of an advantage.”

The President’s response to his CIA chief’s observation was one of unsubtle sarcasm.

“Oh really, you think!”

Terry had been in the business far too long to let something as minor as a President’s sarcastic retorts faze him.

“Yes sir, I do.” Terry responded. “Just as I know that he could just as easily have blown the whole deal by being too obvious, because if the PRC get the slightest suspicion that someone is reading their mail, they’ll change their access codes and encryption in a New York minute.”

The President was quiet for a moment as he thought about that and Terry allowed him the time to let it sink in before gesturing toward the screen.

“All we are doing at the moment is looking at the data feed from the Peoples Liberation Army’s, Sixth Army headquarters on Leyte, to the Central Committee headquarters.” Terry explained.

“That doesn’t effect the outcome of the war by one iota, because we’re merely spectators, we are not doing anything with the data. However, once we act on what we see, or even start to feed disinformation to them on the basis of what we can see here, then from that moment on in we are running the risk of them changing the locks on us, or god forbid, they feed us what they want us to see.”

The President was silent as he looked at the board.

“So what exactly have we got here, what does it give us?”

“We know where every single satellite of theirs is, what each one does and we see and hear everything that they do. We can read all the data passing through them, we know where every single PRC military unit is, what its equipment and supply state is and where it’s heading to.” Terry had asked these exact same questions of his experts only an hour before.

“We know what hardware they have scheduled to go up and we can see precisely what they know about our own satellites, for instance, I now see that we need to start producing more communications satellites, because they will start prioritising their destruction in the next forty-eight hours.”

“Won’t that affect our RORSAT and photo reconnaissance satellite replacement program?”

“Of course it will, but we don’t need them as desperately as we did before Mister President, because we can utilise the PRC’s own satellites now, but of course we will still need to put some up for them to shoot down, otherwise they may get suspicious. All we do is keep sending up something that emits radar waves, I’m sure there must be a warehouse full of 1960s and 70s satellite technology gathering dust somewhere?”

“We are also working on the possibilities of a hack, perhaps to shut down their communications totally, or even write a disinformation program similar to the one they stiffed us with.” Terry had already ordered the writing of several programs, but although they may never be used, it always helped to have something available if the opportunity came up.

“We couldn’t just do that now?”

“No sir, we are peeping over their shoulder, that’s all.” Terry said.

“Our safest bet is to continue to do so, too.” He added with feeling.

While the President and the CIA boss were speaking, Henry was studying the screen. It was all being downloaded elsewhere by NSA and Henry could look at it again anytime he wanted, so he wasn’t too vexed when someone in China pushed a button to bring up the Indian Ocean and Australia. He nodded to himself after taking a moment to see where the PRC thought the allies ships, aircraft and land forces were in that region, and he conceded the PRC had a pretty accurate picture of their deployment, they even had his kids’ ships up there but something else caught his eye and made him feel cold all over.

The President saw Henry stood close to the screen and apparently taking a professional interest in the PLAN and Red Fleet ships heading south across the Indian Ocean. He didn’t know the names of the ships although they were right there on screen, right next to the icon representing the vessel in question, but it was all in Chinese characters of course.

From where the President was stood he could make out a solitary icon trailing along at the rear of the invasion fleet.

“What ship is that Henry has it got engine trouble do you think?” he moved from his seat to stand beside the big marine.

“Looks kinda lonely all by itself back there.” The President removed his glasses from a pocket and polished the lenses before putting them on and leaning forward, peering at the solitary vessel.

It was a small submarine icon and lacked any I.D beside it accept a tiny Australian flag.

“Oh my god, Henry…”

Henry’s expression was grim.

“Yes Mister President, apparently they have discovered that the Hooper is shadowing them.” The exact course, speed and depth were displayed beside the icon.

“It must be difficult to move about without being heard if you’re half deaf, yourself?”

Terry Jones took a look at the screen and then at his boss, he knew exactly what the President was thinking, and as soon as he opened his mouth Terry cut him off.

“We can’t warn them Mister President.”

“But they’ll sink her if we don’t, the Chinese will kill them all!” The President looked from one man to the other, but neither showed anything except grim acceptance. He tried anyway though.

“Those men and women probably won’t hear them coming in time to escape!”

“We can do nothing to help them Mister President, not whilst there is the slightest chance that the enemy may guess how we knew that they had discovered the presence of HMAS Hooper.”

“But….”

“We have here a tool that could help us defeat the Chinese, IF we use it right Mister President. We will take direct action as a result of what we discover, but only if the stakes are high enough sir, because the more often we do so increases the chance of the enemy guessing how and why we did what we did.”

The President looked from CIA chief to top soldier, but Henry shook his head sadly.

“He’s right sir, the only reason the enemy hasn’t sunk her yet is because they are waiting for the right opportunity, probably when the time comes to change course for their intended destination. Until that time arrives they will try and use her to deceive us as to their real intentions, and we also have to let them think we are buying it. If they change course for New Zealand we are going to have to do something there, just to make them think we don’t know any better …I’m sorry Mister President, but we can’t do anything to save them.”

The President took a last look at the tiny icon that was far from home and forcing himself to ignore the men and women it represented, he strode from the room.

The commencement of a massive artillery bombardment announced the arrival of the Red Army at the last line of organised defence that NATO had. Shells and rocket artillery began pounding the Royal Marines of 40 Commando in their fighting holes to the front of the wooded feature, and also isolating them from help by laying a wall of exploding steel to their rear.

On the marine’s flank the Foreign Legionnaires were also receiving some serious attention.

In his battalion CP, Pat Reed could feel the detonation of the nearer high explosives through the soles of his boots, and despite, or maybe even because of having endured the attentions of the Red Army’s guns at Magdeburg, he felt a sense of apprehension growing. The marines to their front were the buffer, the thing on which the Soviet’s would expend valuable munitions, and of course time upon, whilst the lightly armed and equipped British troops picked away at the Soviet fighting vehicles as best they could.

Pat was aware that the new men, the US Paratroopers and British Guardsmen who had arrived in the last couple of days would be listening to the sound of the guns and wondering how they would fare once 40 Commando gave ground and fell back through their lines. He would have liked to be able to tour the positions once more but his place was in the CP now.

Jim Popham was having the same thoughts at the battalion’s alternate CP set 500m to the rear of Pat Reed’s location. Ptarmigan showed the latest sitrep from brigade, 40 Commando was reporting the return to their lines of sub units of their ATGW Troop, anti-tank guided weapons. 40 Commando didn’t expect any more of their anti-tank element would be re-joining owing to the losses they had sustained. The forward screen of the leading MRR had reached the edge of the first obstacle; a deep ditch dug part way across their frontage by the Royal Engineers in the apparent hope of channelling the Soviet’s into a prepared killing ground. An update by the brigades’ intelligence cell identified the leading unit and Jim Popham wondered why that particular unit should ring bells with him. A field telephone near him buzzed for attention, Lt Col Reed was on the other end of the line.

“James dear boy, have you by any chance seen the latest on the opposition?”

“Yes sir, the point unit is Czech, their 23^rd MRR according to the brigade G3.”

“You may or may not know all the ins and outs of this battalion’s first battle of the war, but it was against a Czech division that consisted of three regiments. The 21^st MRR, which were annihilated whilst a second, the 22^nd MRR, took heavy losses from this battalion before it, and the 23^rd MRR, overran the battalions’ positions.”

“Ah, these are the guys who killed your wounded and the prisoners, aren’t they sir?”

“No Major, these are the guys who butchered our wounded, and the men they captured.”

There was a moment’s silence from his CO and Jim wondered exactly what was going to be asked of him.

“I want someone to go around the positions one last time before we come under direct attack. Talk to the new boys and give them a little reassurance, and spread the word that we play rough but we play by the rules…even with these bastards!”

If word hadn’t already got out, well there’s a first time for everything, Jim thought, he was going to have the impossible task of stopping this turning into a grudge match.

Arnie Moore had been looking for an excuse all morning to get out of this bunker and mix with the men on the firing line, and so he didn’t have to be asked twice. The RSM even managed to look sincere when Jim extracted a promise from him that he would be back before the Soviet’s reached the forward slopes of the location.

Arnie Moore took a tri of Guardsmen with him, and ignoring the FV-432 assigned for his use, he took Jim Popham’s Warrior and its three-man crew instead. He wasn’t planning on returning to the bunker any time soon, and if he were going to take part in the fighting he would require something more substantial than a bulletproof taxi.

There was a brief lull in the artillery falling upon the RM positions, and a Wimik broke from cover close by to a Soviet O.P to dash back into friendly lines, chased by small arms fire and mortars that fell wide. No sooner had the vehicle made it to safety the artillery fell once more, keeping the marines pinned in their holes.

Fifteen minutes later, brigade informed 2REP and 1CG, the units closest to the Royal Marines, that 40 Commando’s CP had gone off the air and the RM’s senior surviving officer, the O.C. Bravo Company, had taken command but his company CP was not set up to run the whole unit, so there could be command and control shortfalls. It was not an unheard of occurrence to lose a CP; 1CG had lost its own during its first defensive action of the war, so on the face of it the marines had hit an unlucky streak. Major Venables was passed the same message by the CP with an update by the C.O, and he in turn warned his troop commanders that they might possibly be leaving their hide positions for the forward fighting positions earlier than expected.

As well as warning the attached arms and company commanders, Pat Reed had the information passed to the OPs and snipers; Big Stef listened briefly to a signaller at the battalion CP and replaced the hides’ field telephone receiver.

“Keep a good eye open to the sunken lane, the Green Machine lost its CP.”

Bill removed his eye from the Schmidt & Bender sight. “They’ve got another, a fall back like we have, haven’t they?” The infantry was not his chosen arm and despite the time spent with 1CG he found many of the ways of the infantry a mystery.

“What about the farm, that’s a CP?”

“The farm’s their support company CP, and they may not have an alternate…we only have one because of what happened before. It’s not standard practice.”

Bill returned his attention to the scope.

“The marines’ gunners are back.” Stef grunted an acknowledgement. Half an hour before, the gunners had fired a mission and relocated, vacating the gun line nearest the snipers just before Soviet counter battery fire landed. The 105mm battery had been changing location after every mission it fired in support of the troops on the ground, and was now moving back in to their original position. If there were a breakdown in communication between units, it would be hard to tell if the gunners were relocating or bugging out because they may know something their neighbours didn’t. The only way to tell would be the sudden influx of traffic, foot and vehicular, onto the sunken lane.

“Keep a good eye out for any signs of the marines pulling back, mate. This could all go to ratshit pretty damn quickly.”

Bill kept his eye fixed to the telescopic sight.

“There’s movement in the lane.”

Stef crawled back to his place beside the staff sergeant and took up the Swiftscope, training it to where Bill had the rifle aimed.

“You see a Landrover with stretchers along the back?” Bill said. “It’s just to the left of the farm.”

Stef adjusted the point of view and then brought the vehicle into focus, watching it as it moved slowly down the lane.

“Casevac run.” Stef muttered. “And it’s a Wimik, not a ‘Lanny’.”

Anything on the lane was visible to their hide for only a hundred or so metres from the point where it appeared beside the farm, and after a short while the Wimik’s position was only identifiable owing to the vehicles radio antennae, sticking up above the lanes bordering hedgerow. They watched it for a few minutes because there was nothing else going on at the moment in their sphere of responsibility.

“Why do they keep on stopping?” Bill asked after the antennae began whipping energetically back and forth, indicating the vehicle had stopped again. It had done so twice within the space of a hundred metres.

“I dunno.” Stef was no wiser than his mate. “Maybe it’s knackered, or maybe there’s obstacles in the road that need shifting…and why are you asking me anyway, do I look like the fucking oracle?”

Any answer, which may have been coming, was drowned out by the sound of three 240mm mortar rounds landing as one. Both snipers had been looking elsewhere at that precise moment, and on looking toward the source of the sound they found the view of the farm obscured by smoke and flying debris. When the smoke cleared, the farmhouse, barn and all the rest of the buildings had all but disappeared. The mortars had been fired from seven miles away and the rounds had landed within a foot of one another, square on the roof of the farmhouse, but to the casual observer it seemed that a single lucky, or unlucky, round had scored on another 40 Commando CP. Fractured stone, brick and splintered timbers were still landing far from the point where they had played there part in the farms structure as Stef called it in on the field telephone. Bill swung his weapon back toward the lane in time to see the last of the stretchers and the burdens upon them being passed across the hedgerow. So the vehicle had broken down then, he thought, and watched the half dozen stretcher bearers lift their loads and start toward the hill defended by the Coldstreamers. That wasn’t the marines pre-planned egress route but Bill didn’t know if casevac’s had to follow the same route.

The first port of call for Arnie was 1 Company, to pass on the gospel according to Pat Reed and to look up his mate C/Sgt Osgood before the fight started. Directing his driver to park up in a ‘garage’, a prepared camouflaged area with camm nets thickening up the natural cover that vehicles could use without having to unravel and drape their own nets over whenever they stopped.

1 Company’s stores had two locations, the main stores were well to the rear but a good stock of ammunition and munitions was in a bunker dug into a reverse slope two hundred metres from the company CP and covered with pine trunks before the earth was piled back on. Arnie headed for the hillside stores first and met the padre as he made his way through the trees; the padre was still doing the rounds, moving from trench to trench. The sound of battle nearby had instilled in some a renewed interest in things godly. The American paratrooper was moving downhill, whilst the British padre was heading up, having visited the Hussars in their hide positions and was now intent on speaking to the men in the forward positions. Arnie paused, stepping to one side and extending a helping hand to assist him over a particularly steep and muddy patch.

“Thank you, sarn’t major.” The padre was flushed and breathing heavily.

“When I left the infantry behind I left the concept of ‘infantry-fit’ behind too…I’m regretting that now.”

Arnie grinned at the man. Sure, he could be a bore and a pain in the ass with his bible punching, singling an individual out for some one- to-one attention, and usually when you had just come off duty, but he was sincere and meant well or he’d be in a shelter bay already and not still wandering around above ground offering spiritual support. Arnie was thinking of something to say in reply, but both men heard the sound of an express train approaching from the east. The paratrooper was beaten to a handy dip in the ground by the padre, and both men pressed their faces into the mud as the sound got louder.

“For what we are about to receive may the lord make us truly thankful!” said the padre with irony.

Taken slightly aback, Arnie chuckled

“Amen.” and then the ground heaved.

The rounds had landed upon the hills top, shattering the trunks of trees and cleaving deep craters in the earth, but otherwise doing no harm.

The padre raised his head to listen; canting it to one side for a few seconds, if the belt had been to ‘fire for effect’ then more rounds would be following them in now.

“Ranging rounds, so they must be doing better than expected against the marines, sarn’t major, and now they are thinking about us.” He climbed to his feet.

“I’m thinking the Reds will be here in an hour or so, and that means they’ll be stonking this hill in earnest a lot sooner than that!”

It was an ironic scene, the Man of God telling the professional soldier what was happening in the battle.

The Padre’s first taste of incoming artillery had been as a buckshee Guardsman during the Falklands War back in 1982, but it hadn’t been his last by a long shot. Arnie Moore, on the other hand, had seen his own share of conflict but until Magdeburg he had not been on the receiving end of medium and heavy guns, which made the padre the resident expert. Looking at his watch the RSM was troubled. It had been just a little over two hours since the Soviet’s had hit the protective mine field to the front of the marine’s positions, and 40 Commando’s CO had been confident on holding for up to twelve hours, six at the very least. The Royal Marine’s weren’t some pussy, amateur outfit, he had served alongside them in Afghanistan and Iraq, and if they were about to be overrun, or pushed off the position early it wasn’t due to bad soldiering or a lack of guts.

He cast a quick glance downhill towards Oz’s stores before turning and following the padre back uphill. Social calls would have to wait.

The stretcher bearing party had passed through the Battery from 29 Commando Regiment, Royal Artillery, uphill into the trees and out of view from the hide who’s occupants could hear the sound of combat from over the rise the farm buildings had occupied, in the dead ground beyond. In the last forty minutes the sound of small arms had increased, and shortly after that the sound of main tank guns could be discerned. The Royal Marines, unlike the USMC, have no armour of their own. Two Troops of Scimitar light tanks on attachment from the Blue’s & Royals were the nearest thing they had, the Scimitars 30mm Rarden cannon was ineffective against medium or heavy armour but it could defeat APCs.

The marines had twice the number of Milan’s that an infantry battalion carried and they constituted the units principle tank killer, reaching out 2000m at their extreme range. The 94mm LAW is meant to take over from the Milan when the targets reach 400m, which is the Milan’s minimum engagement range; however the troops had found that opening fire with the LAW at anything above 150m was a waste of ammunition if the target was moving.

The artillery had ensured that the Milan teams had their work cut out, they fired a high percentage of shells fused for airburst and whereas these had no effect on troops in shelter bays with decent top cover, they were designed for use against troops in firing bays. Had the Milan teams had a free hand then they could in theory have destroyed eighty enemy AFVs between the minefield and the Milan’s own minimum engagement range, but only twenty three of the lead assault battalions vehicles were stopped by the guided weapons.

Channelling the enemy into the prepared killing zone had met with only limited success. Engineer vehicles had bridged the vehicle ditch in several places, allowing the mine ploughs to clear paths through the narrowest parts of the minefield. Rather than having a target rich environment of fighting vehicles sat stationary behind mine ploughs destroyed by Milan, those anti-tank teams that were not being kept in the bottom of their holes by constant airbursts had found ranks of mine ploughs confronting them. In the 12.5 seconds it took the weapons to reach maximum range the Soviet artillery spotters were targeting the launch site and a hundred square metres of real estate around the firing points for some serious attention in case the missile launcher had been remote sited. They had the quantity of weapons to achieve their aim, and consequently fewer than a dozen mine ploughs and combat engineer vehicles were destroyed. Too often the anti-tank gunners had fired and were guiding the missile home when they were hit by shrapnel or just forced to take cover, even.

The LAW gunners weren’t troubled by the Soviet artillery in the same way that the Milan crews had been, because as someone had once said, ‘It’s considered bad form to shell your own troops’. The AFVs were too close to the marine’s positions and so the gunners switched from H.E to smoke. The LAW isn’t equipped with thermal sights and that fact, coupled with the burning particles of white phosphorus that produced the smoke, reduced the ability of the lightweight weapons gunners to engage.

The loss of 40 Commando’s command post so early on had robbed the unit of its practiced and experienced, dedicated artillery and close air support systems before the Soviet’s had finished softening up their intended victim. The Commando units forward air controller, artillery rep and their staff’s, died when a single and frighteningly accurate salvo of heavy artillery scored a direct hit on the CP. Bravo Company’s commander assumed control but he had neither the staff nor the radios to take over the role of the CO and fulfil the duties the former CP had achieved so well. He delegated the passing of artillery requests to Alpha Company CP, and Charlie Company the air support liaison role, but Alpha and Charlie were over two kilometres apart and liaison between the two became disjointed.

To the front of Bravo Company an entirely natural feature was causing the enemy fighting vehicles coming their way to bunch up. A section of stream with particularly high banks on one side, and a dense stand of Sycamore trees on the other were spoiling the combat spacing between vehicles as they were forced to close up in order to get past.

Charlie Company CP received an airstrike request from a Section Commander and Alpha Company passed on a fire mission from a Troop Commander. Neither CP told the other about it, and so it was that a pair of RAF Tornado’s arrived over the bottle neck that was thick with enemy APCs and Tanks at the same time as a full battery’s worth of improved munitions discharging Skeet submunitions. The leading Tornado was hit by a submunition and exploded in mid-air whilst the second aircraft sucked debris from the leader into an air intake, and trailing smoke and fire it made it to the brigade’s rear area where both crewmen ejected safely. From then on the NATO air force’s insisted on double checking with the artillery before accepting missions from 40 Commando, and the ensuing delays were the cause of missed opportunities.

No amount of digging could have reduced the casualties amongst the Royal Marines in their trenches; the Red Army had built its armoured warfare tactics around the use of massed artillery and used it without compassion, the Royal Marines were being thinned out and NATO artillery’s counter battery fire was wholly inadequate.

The frequency of calls from the battalion CP was evidence enough that they were concerned about events in the marines sector.

“We could do with an answering machine.” Big Stef replaced the handset again and checked the progress of the brew he was preparing. The water in a mess tin was boiling away nicely and he took it from small stove to transfer to a mug but the ground bucked beneath him and half the water was lost.

“What…!”

The ground heaved again and he dropped the mess tin, holding on to the walls of the hide for balance.

“It’s the gun line.” Bill had been taken by surprise with the first explosion and had swung his weapon from the crest by the sunken lane, around to the dead ground by the copse. He watched the effects of a second round scoring a direct hit on a gun's ammunition supply; it obliterated the howitzer, its tractor unit and its crew.

Stef crawled back into place beside Bill, peering through his scope. A third round landed, and it also struck the stacked rounds to the rear of one of the howitzers.

“Three rounds and three hits.” Bill observed.

“Bloody good shooting!”

“Good shooting, my arse!” Stef swung around the Swift Scope, looking for likely spots.

“Start looking for spotters mate, you can bet yer left bollock those rounds were laser guided!”

Stef informed the CP and the information was passed to the forward positions, where the Guardsmen and Paratroopers watched their fronts for the spotters and their laser designators. One by one the howitzers were destroyed but no one got the faintest sniff as to the spotter’s whereabouts despite dividing up the ground between them and scrutinising all possible hide sites. There was nothing to suggest the enemy spotter could be anywhere except to the front of the battalion lines, and why would you look over your shoulder to check if the designator was being used from within your own lines, anyway?

The invasion of the Philippines by the armed forces of the People’s Republic of China was proving to be a slow business. Thus far Cebu, Bohol, Negros, Siquijor and Palawan were the only islands of any size to have been taken. The largest islands of the archipelago, Luzon, Leyte and Mindanao where still being fiercely contested by the regular forces and Chinese losses were far and above those expected during the planning stage.

The PRC had amassed a huge army since the Second World War and had spent the previous decade modernising it, to the extent that they could drive their armoured forces like a vast steel encased carpet over any of their neighbour’s borders, swamping all resistance with ease. The problem they had with the Philippines was that it was not a single landmass, but rather a cluster of over a thousand islands, mostly hilly or mountainous and covered in forest or jungle over a high percentage of their area, and they did not lend themselves favourably to armoured warfare. There were no freeways, motorways or autobahns, there were just roads that were generally inadequate for normal peacetime use and easily put out of action. The Chinese needed leg infantry who knew how to fight in the jungle clad peaks that the home team found so easy to defend, and although China did have such troops, they did not have anywhere near enough of them. They had tried using armoured tactics on Luzon and for their troubles were now stopped dead in their tracks halfway across, and a similar situation existed on Leyte where the commander of the invasion forces had unwisely asked Beijing for permission to delay the landings on Mindanao, and instead use the troops earmarked for there to complete the job on Luzon and Leyte first.

The new commander of the Sixth Army had been briefed to keep moving forwards always, and had moved his headquarters, rather than his units, a half kilometre nearer the front within hours of taking over. The Political Commissar believed this was a sound tactical move for some odd reason, and reported it as such to his superiors. The real reason for the new commander’s decision was simply that his predecessor had been buried in too shallow a hole, upwind of the headquarters.

Guerrilla forces on all of the islands were sapping Sixth Army of manpower and equipment, as ‘conquered’ islands demonstrated that they were far from pacified. Forces that were sorely needed on Leyte, Luzon and Mindanao were instead being tied down patrolling or guarding against guerrilla attacks.

Air power was one area where the PRC should have had the upper hand, especially as their opponents had a tiny air force with which to challenge them for air superiority. U.S made Stinger missiles in the hands of both the Regular Filipino troops, and the Guerrilla’s, were having the same effect on the morale of the Chinese aviators as they had wrought on Warsaw Pact pilots in Afghanistan two decades before.

The fixed wing assets of the tiny but professional Philippines Air Force existed only upon Mindanao, where its two squadrons of F-5Es, a half dozen ancient and only recently reactivated F-8H Crusaders, Agusta S-211s and piston engined T-28D Trojans were backed up by a trio of Taiwanese F-16Cs. The Filipino’s had these precious assets spread about the islands fourteen suitable fields and the United States had provided enough Patriot systems to make a serious attempt at destroying the Filipino air force, a very costly business. As it was though, the PAF rarely sent these aircraft into harm’s way, and the Chinese assumption was that logistical problems were the cause of this. The PAF’s helicopter fleet on the other hand, was not restricted to Mindanao, and was supporting both regular and irregular forces on the islands. The machines use of small clearings as bases and the pilot’s intimate knowledge of the ground made them singularly difficult to deal with. The AGM-114C Hellfire missiles carried by the Filipino aircraft had originally been bought to deal with an invader who used armour in support of infantry operations, the aircrews had never dreamt of having such a target rich environment, and between them and the terrain they had managed to halt the Chinese ground forces for the time being.

Considering the sizes of the forces involved such a situation could only be temporary. In terms of numbers, the strength of the regular forces defending the islands was 160,000 soldiers, sailors and airmen, whereas the invading PLA Sixth Army had twice that number in infantry alone. It was only a matter of time before the commanders returned the infantry to their roots by getting them out of the vehicles in order to continue the invasion on foot. In the meantime the Chinese controlled the waters around the Philippines as well as the air approaches and this prevented any resupply in quantity of any of the staples of a fighting forces life. The general staff of the Philippines armed forces knew that with current ammunition expenditure rates, within a month the Chinese would quite literally have more troops than the Filipinos had bullets to shoot them with. Patrolling warships and combat air patrols enjoyed a free-fire zone around the islands, and frequently attacked without warning any vessel larger than a rowing boat. The islands were under siege and only once had that been quite obviously breached, the previous week, and probably by aircraft that had destroyed the CAP south of the Zamboanga peninsula. The commander Sixth Army was not concerned by such occasional breaches, after all, how much could an aircraft carry? Certainly not enough to make a difference, but he had directed the navy to place an air defence frigate off the peninsular anyway in order to strengthen the picket there.

Today the PLAN Jiangwei class frigate Anqing was receiving radar data from a pair of FC-1s providing the CAP, and two fast gunboats, which accompanied her. A Haiqing class patrol boat held station five miles ahead and a second vessel, a smaller Haizhu class, kept pace five miles aft, allowing the frigate to engage without bring its radar out of standby and therefore revealing its own position.

The Anqing was cruising at an economic ten knots, twelve miles off the peninsular and in relatively calm seas when the data link failed. Her communications officer tried to raise both patrol boats first and then the aircraft, but when his hails received no response her captain ordered the radar to go active. In addition to the sea search and Eyeshield 2D air search radars the 6 cell HQ-61 SAM was put in active mode, the gun crews of the dual 100mm and all four dual 37mm mounts closed up and swung out to seaward. They heard their attacker and they saw it with the naked eye but the radar screens remained clear. The bat shaped aircraft was on the landward side and only a mile distant when it was seen, climbing to 1600 feet before rolling inverted and diving back toward the island. It had disappeared into the sea haze before the quickest 37mm crew could get a round off, and by then of course it was too late anyway to avoid the pair of laser guided 1000 pounder’s the aircraft had toss-lobbed there way.

At Edwin Andrew Airbase the American bomber force took to the air first, leaving the Philippines for the foreseeable future as they made full use of the gap in the picket. They were followed by four transports, two USAF C-5s and a pair of Royal Air Force C-130s which flew just a couple of hundred feet above the waves until well clear of the land and well beyond the radar coverage of the remaining Chinese pickets before the C-5s set course for Guam. The C-5s carried away the technicians, ground crews and essential stores that were needed to keep the B-1Bs, B-2s and the F-117A force in running order, the fuelling stop at the tiny atoll was just the first step on the journey home. The two Hercules from 47 Squadron took a different route, and headed for the nearest tanker serving the silo strike. Squadron Leader Dunn and Flight Lieutenant Braithwaite’s C-130 led the way, and they settled down to share the flying between them. They had a long way to go and at an average speed of 460mph it was going to take them a while to get there, so the ‘Loadies’, and the Royal Marines aboard for security, settled down too.

There had been neither sight nor sound of a helicopter all day, and yet the runway was to remain covered until the last possible moment, and the troopers at stand-to in their fighting holes. The commander of the small unit was not about to let standards drop just because the job was nearly done. The militia were miles away and floundering, but in his experience it could take just one piece of bad luck to have the tables turn on them, so until the F-117X was away for the last time, he was keeping everything locked down tight. In his original thinking the airstrip would be abandoned within an hour of take-off, but Major Nunro had come to him with a request and an apologetic expression.

“The problem I have is that I’m not flying a USAF Nighthawk, and this aircraft doesn’t have the legs.”

“If it’s not a Nighthawk then what is it?” he had asked. “Looks like one to me.”

“It’s experimental and it still belongs to Lockheed-Martin, not the air force.”

He’d seen the humour.

“It’s a loaner?”

“Nighthawks are single crewed if you didn’t know, this one can do more than a pilot on his or her own can deal with, so a back seater was required but to accomplish that they had to lose an internal fuel tank.” The pilot had looked very apologetic.

“The short version is, we can reach the target and do the job, but flame out inside enemy territory. Or we can return here, and refuel before trying to get out.”

He had acquiesced of course, because they were too deep within the forest for the militia to hear an aircraft take off, and it was only for a few extra hours after all.

To the south west, the two men he had shadowing the militia reported that the current rate of advance was less than half a kilometre per hour, and the radio traffic they were intercepting didn’t indicate any surprises, but he wouldn’t let the men relax.

In its well camouflaged niche the aircraft sat like a dark, brooding thing awaiting the dark whilst its crew and Svetlana, dressed in flight suit purely for environmental practicality, sat about talking and waiting for the night to fall.

There was little to break the monotony of the endless routine that had been drilled into each and every crewman from the first day they had stepped foot across the threshold of submarine school. The only way was the Navy way, and there was a logical reason for that, the Navy way was quieter, quicker and safer, never mind that it turned the hands into automatons. No one aboard had felt fresh air on their face since before the start of the war, and although the captain had seen daylight it had only been through a periscope and the last occasion that had been raised was over two weeks before. There wasn’t a man aboard who did not miss their families and the outside world as much as they loathed the steel shell that they were forced to exist in. The enemy was out there and their submarine required only their chief executives order to attack and destroy them, but what was taking so long, they had been here for days now?

They were not party to the command-in-chief’s intentions, and did not know the orders were dependant on events elsewhere in the world, so they continued to tip toe in the dark so as not to alert the enemy as to their presence.

The captain ordered the vessel up toward the surface, so that the floating antennae to be streamed. It was a daily occurrence, listening for the order to attack and at first there had been an air of expectation whenever they had done this, but that however had palled with the passage of time.

At 100 feet the vessel had levelled off and 1800 metres of antennae cable had been streamed, but unlike past occasions a bell sounded in the control room this time to announce high priority incoming traffic.

The captain and the executive officer wore solemn expressions after reading the received signal, and accompanied the weapons officer to his panel where they supervised the input of amended targeting data, adding Davao and Melbourne to their existing strike package of Pearl Harbor, San Diego, Los Angeles, San Francisco and Guam.

Aboard the USS San Juan, 7500m behind, they listened to the Chinese boomer reel in the antennae and return to her patrol depth.