The Fall of Night

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Dunkirk, Round Two

Ostend, Belgium

“Sir, look out!”

Captain Stuart Robinson didn’t hesitate. He took one look into the air, saw the shape closing in on them, and threw himself out of the truck, rolling as he hit the ground hard enough to hurt badly. The deafening noise as the Russian aircraft opened fire stunned him; he covered his ears and fought to keep low as the lorries exploded and the Russian aircraft banked away, mercifully not bothering to attempt to strafe the British soldiers on the ground.

“Fuck,” Robinson hissed, as he checked himself out. Nothing was broken, thankfully, but his body ached. He hadn’t felt so bad since his first day at the training camp. “Anyone hurt?”

Sergeant Ronald Inglehart was looking down at one of the soldiers. “He’s dead, sir,” he said, as he checked the body and removed the tags from the soldier’s body. Robinson took one look at the body and knew there was no point in hunting for a pulse; the man’s chest had been literally punched through by a bullet. “Chris came all this way with us and…”

Robinson forced down his own feelings. They had been lucky, driving mainly at night to avoid Russian aircraft, but they’d had to move faster to pick up their ride home and the Russians had caught them. It was a bloody miracle that they hadn’t lost more men; the handful of tiny injuries and two broken bones looked a small price to pay for getting home… if they managed to make it home without losing any more men. The once-proud EUROFOR had been reduced to hundreds of bands of stragglers, trying to make their way back home; he wondered what had happened to Generalmajor Günter Mühlenkampf and the remains of his force. Had they made the Russians pay for their attack on Europe?

“We have to start walking,” he said. They had passed several bunches of refugees, people fleeing into the countryside and trying to escape, others heading towards the coast in hopes that the Royal Marines would pick them up as well as the British and European soldiers. “We can’t stay here.”

“Sir,” one of the soldiers protested, “can’t we bury him?”

Robinson knew what cold logic dictated they should do. The body should be abandoned. But he couldn't bring himself to do that, not now and not ever.

“Quickly,” he said, hunting for a spot where the body could be buried quickly. Inglehart and Mathews organised a digging party; seven soldiers worked rapidly to bury their fallen comrade, before they started the long march to the west again. “I don’t think that we have much time.”

“No,” Mathews muttered, as they started walking. “Have you been listening to the aircraft?”

Robinson thought about it. “I think I understand,” he said finally. “There are air battles going on as well, aren’t there?”

Mathews nodded. “Back in 1940, the Germans threw a lot of air power at Dunkirk, but failed to close the door on the escaping forces,” he said. “The Russians will be coming after us with everything they can bring to bear on us, and you know that the handful of Germans we passed won’t be able to slow them down for long. They have weapons the Germans could only dream about, as well; all they have to do is sink a few larger ships and… we’re fucked.”

A nightmarish hour passed as they walked onwards. The temperature was rising quickly, becoming almost tropical; the noise of unseen battles in the sky echoing around them, the occasional sight of an aircraft flying east or west forcing them to duck for cover. Robinson hoped, from the noise, that the RAF was beating the shit out of the Russians, but he knew something about the balance of power in the air. The RAF was likely to be doing the best they could, but the Russians would have more aircraft and more resources. It would be a nasty confrontation…

“Halt,” a voice bellowed, in English. The accent was pure cockney. “Identify yourselves!”

“Captain Stuart Robinson,” Robinson called back. “Identify yourself.”

“Captain Roberto Grey, Royal Marines, 3 Commando,” the voice called back. “Remain where you are; we must check your identity before we can proceed.”

“Oh, joy,” Sergeant Ronald Inglehart muttered. “It’s the Royal Latrines.”

“They’re the best we have at the moment,” Robinson reminded him dryly. The Royal Marines came out of hiding and revealed themselves; there was no mistaking their uniforms or their attitude. If they were Russians, they were doing a very good job of pretending to be British soldiers; they carried themselves with a mixture of competence and confidence. His mouth fell into a smile. He recognised one. “Bob!”

Sergeant Bob Patterson stared at him, and grinned. “Captain Robinson, as I live and breathe,” he shouted. The tension drained away; Robinson had felt his men preparing for a desperate last stand. It would have been typical of the unexpected war for his men to die in a brief battle with friendly forces. “We kicked your arse at Salisbury Plain!”

“And we kicked yours in the Highlands,” Robinson shouted back, remembering a mock war game that had ended up with everyone falling into a bog. A lot of friendships had been forged that day. “How do we get home?”

“We check your biometrics first, and then we send you back,” Grey said firmly. He was a dour-faced man; Robinson pressed his fingertips to the scanner he held and sighed in relief when it cleared his identity. He had had no doubt that the Marines would have opened fire if there had been a single mistake. “The British soldiers can pass, but the non-British have to go unarmed.”

Robinson opened his mouth to protest. “Sorry,” Grey said quickly, “but we have already had one case of an infiltrator — we think he was a Russian in Dutch clothing — and we dare not risk another. This operation is working on the margins as it is…”

“I see,” Robinson said. “Jean, everyone…”

The foreigners surrendered their weapons reluctantly; Robinson motioned to his men to take them. Grey saw and decided not to argue. “Now,” Robinson said, as an aircraft flew overhead. “What do we do now?”

“Follow the road to the west, around the towns and city, and head to the coast,” Grey said. “One of the other Marines will show you where to go to board one of the ships; the Russian bastards managed to fuck up the port and so we have had to improvise. Once we get you back to England, you’ll be debriefed and given new orders.”

Good thing we didn’t keep the CADS, Robinson thought, thinking about Hazel. She had to have been worried sick about him in Edinburgh; how much did the citizens know about the war? They started the long walk towards the west feeling much better than they had in weeks; one of the soldiers even began to sing a long and filthy song. Others called out equally obscene requests; Robinson didn’t bother to stop them as they encountered a second Marine patrol, which pointed them down onto a breach that had been torn apart by tanks and other heavy vehicles. He could see two more CADS positioned to provide air cover; as he watched, one of them launched a missile towards a low-flying aircraft that had appeared out of nowhere, sending it crashing into the city.

Inglehart sounded stunned. “What about the civilians?”

Robinson said nothing. The civilians had paid the price for their government’s failure. A handful of Marine medics gave basic medical treatment to his injured men; they had walked all the way to the beach without complaining, or needing to be carried… not that he would have abandoned them, of course. They were too important to be abandoned by their fellows.

“The boat will carry you to the larger ship,” a harassed looking Marine Colonel said. Robinson hadn’t realised how few soldiers had made it out of Poland, let alone Germany; he couldn’t see more than a few hundred soldiers at most being prepared for the trip across the Channel. “Once you’re onboard, find somewhere to sit and keep out of the fucking way, understand?”

Robinson nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said. They were almost home. “We won’t cause trouble.”

“Charlie-one, you have four enemy fighters, closing in,” the controller reported. “Suggest that you engage.”

“I would never have thought of that,” Flying Officer Cindy Jackson sneered, as she pulled the Eurofighter Tempest into an attack vector. Four other Typhoons followed her; the remnants of the RAF seemed to consider her a pretty good flying officer, even if they didn’t share her high opinion of herself. The Russian fighters were approaching at high speed, forcing her to turn to engage them; if they had a chance to commit themselves to a bombing run, they could wreak havoc. “Charlie flight, take your targets and dance!”

She fired a single ASRAAM, all-too-aware that the RAF was running short of advanced weapons, at the lead Russian aircraft. The Russian tried to evade, failed, and was blown out of the air by the missile; two more fell before the final aircraft could launch its own missiles towards one of the Typhoons. They were still having problems tracking the Tempest; their Mainstay aircraft were holding well back, terrified of the CADS on the ground and the SAS officers that had scattered through the countryside, armed with Stingers and other SAM missiles. Other Russian aircraft appeared, launched their missiles from long range, and then retreated, forcing her to hold back her fliers to prevent them from giving chase. The Russians not only had a massive SAM belt established to protect their own forces, but they had also far more aircraft and missiles; every time she fired a missile, she dug into a rapidly-dwindling stockpile. Worst of all, the Russians had pulled a surprise out of their bag; their countermeasures against BVRAAM missiles had been improved to the point where guaranteeing a kill was much harder.

“Several more Russian bombers approaching on attack vector,” the controller injected, interrupting her private thoughts. She cursed as one of her pilots was blown out of the sky by the final Russian aircraft before it fled the battlezone; the Russians didn’t have to stay and fight. The RAF was badly overstretched; the Russians could keep dancing in, forcing her to burn vital fuel and missiles to react, and then duck back under their SAM belt. Heavy Russian bombers had been trying to raid the Royal Marine positions on the ground; only the Dutch damage to their own dikes had prevented heavy Russian armoured units from reaching Ostend. “Engagement vectors…”

“I know,” Cindy snapped. She yanked the Tempest around and raced for the bombers, hoping that they wouldn’t sense her presence until it was too late; there was so much radar energy boiling around that she had no idea just how well the Tempest’s stealth systems were holding up under the pressure. They might see her coming, or they might not react in time to prevent her; the ageing Bears wouldn’t have the best equipment if the Russians were using them to draw out British fire. “Closing in…”

The lead Bear launched a spread of missiles; some targeted on the Royal Navy ships and transports, some targeted on the beach defences. Cindy cursed and activated her cannon; the Russians wanted her to spend her missiles on the Bears, but she had only one missile left and she didn’t dare waste it. The Bears seemed unaware of her presence, then she saw the tail-gunner swinging up to target her; she cursed again and fired a long burst into the rear of the Russian aircraft, sending it crashing down towards the sea. The others were scattering now, their deadly cargo launched; she took down two more before twisting away and allowing the others to escape. She was down to only a few rounds left and she would need them later. Other Russian fighters were closing in on her position. If they hadn’t know where she was before, they certainly knew now…

She hit the afterburners and the Tempest flashed away from the Russian aircraft. They didn’t bother to give pursuit; they were watching as the Russian missiles lashed down on the ships, some of the warships successfully covering themselves with their CIWS, others being hit and sunk; Cindy had heard that the Russian submarines had been chased everywhere around Britain, perhaps in preparation for another coordinated missile strike. The Royal Navy had deployed almost all of its remaining ASW units to the evacuation effort; the Russians seemed to have picked up on the hint and kept their own submarines away.

The sky lit up as a massive liner, pressed into service, exploded. Cindy had wondered if she would ever have the chance to sail on the MS Queen Victoria; she would never have the chance now as the explosion tore the ship apart, along with the people who had been packed onto her decks. The slaughter would be awesome, she knew; the Royal Marines would have lost dozens of their people on the lost ship. The Russians had something else to answer for…

“I require a top-up,” she said, as the Tempest headed away from Belgium. She had been fighting for what felt like hours and it was starting to show; the RAF had too few planes and too few pilots. The fuel supply on her aircraft was running low; she needed to refuel or head back to base, one of the handful of airfields and airports that the RAF had managed to press back into service. “Control; please supply vectors to the tanker…”

“Understood,” the controller said. The French commander of the aircraft was cute; Cindy had been hoping to make his acquaintance at a later date. He wasn’t technically a squadron-mate, after all. “Flight vector is… fuck!”

Cindy saw it all on the download. Five missiles had been launched, from Britain; aimed at the tanker and its three escorts. The tanker had been over British soil, it had been believed to be safe; surprised, the escorts took too long to react, or to drop flares. Two missiles found their target and impacted directly with the tanker, sending it crashing to the ground in flames. The explosion would have been heard for miles!

“No,” she said, unable to face the cold knowledge of what had happened. It might have been a disastrous case of blue-on-blue, friendly fire, but she doubted it; the day that the Russians started flying tankers over British soil was the day that the war was lost. It had to have been a deliberate act; someone down on Britain was working for the Russians… and had just pulled off the most successful strike of the war. “Control…?”

There was no choice, she knew; the RAF would have no choice. “All aircraft, retreat,” Air Marshall Bentley said, before the AWACS could say anything. His priority would be to save as many aircraft as he could before they started to run out of fuel. The Eurofighters, whatever their other virtues, were fuel-guzzlers. “Return to the nearest airbase and await further orders.”

“Bastards,” Cindy hissed, as she swung the Tempest around. The RAF had ceded control over the battlezone to the Russian Air Force… and that meant that the people on the ground were fucked. “Real bastards!”

“I just had an update from the headquarters,” Captain Bellamy said, grimly. “The RAF has been driven out of the battlezone.”

“We knew that it would happen,” Marine Colonel Patrick Trombly said, as calmly as he could. They’d pulled out over a thousand soldiers from several different countries, including six hundred British soldiers; the thought of just how many had died in the fighting, or remained trapped behind enemy lines, made him wince. The RAF had held its own in the fighting, but everyone had known that it was just a matter of time. He’d pulled out most of his vehicles hours ago, just to ensure that they got home. “What’s the latest from the SAS?”

“The Russians are closing in,” Captain Bellamy said. “Captain Grey was requesting permission to engage them directly…”

Trombly shook his head. The Royal Marines had had a busy couple of days, setting up as many ambushes and booby-traps for the Russians as they could, unloading all of their considerable bad feeling on the hapless Russian soldiers. The Russians outnumbered the marines and had artillery support; the bombing was bad enough, but once they brought up their heavy guns, the Marines would be ground down and wiped out. They had won all the time they could…

“Send the recall signal,” he said. The SAS soldiers would melt into the countryside; hiding and reporting in using satellite transmitters locked into American satellites. They would report on what the Russians were doing until they were pulled out or the Russians caught them. “Remind everyone that if they miss the boat, they will have to follow the emergency procedures… or swim to England if they are really desperate.”

He scowled. His Marines had swum the English Channel more than once, certainly more than they had ever admitted to publicly, but that had been under ideal circumstances. Would tired and battered Marines be able to make the same swim at a far longer distance from friendly shores? He felt bitter; a handful of his men had volunteered to remain behind as a rearguard, fighting until the end, but there had been no choice. They had all had to be pulled out; they were going to be needed.

“And set all of the CADS on auto-engage,” he said, as the Marines came running back to their transports. Many of them had seen to it that the Russians would get a few unpleasant surprises as they tried to recover British equipment; others were silent, contemplating not only defeat, but also the possible future for their own country. “We may as well give the Russians something to worry about as they close in.”

He clenched his teeth. “It’s not as if they have had anything else to worry about…”