The Fall of Night

Chapter Seven: To Be in Poland, In the Summertime

Near Warsaw, Poland

The Polish countryside scrolled past as the line of vehicles, jeeps, trucks, and three CADS vehicles, moved along the country road, heading well away from any civilisation. They passed a handful of farmers and traders on the way to their deployment zone, using the SATNAV system to ensure that they found the correct location within Poland. For the common soldiers, there was little to do, but wait in the trucks; some talking, some catching up on their sleep… a handful playing with electronic toys.

“It’s only a couple of kilometres further,” Captain Jacob Anastazy said. The Polish liaison officer, there to help the British soldiers find their way around the country and smooth out any difficulties that they might encounter with Polish citizens, looked confident. There hadn’t been any real difficulties; the only problem they had encountered had been an impromptu victory parade when they had passed through a small town. “This area is pretty much deserted.”

“Good,” Captain Stuart Robinson said. He was one of the lucky handful who got to ride in a jeep; the other soldiers mainly had to sit in the trucks. It was better, he supposed, than marching all the way from Germany to Poland, but not by much. The trucks had been designed for dozens of different purposes, including both heavy transport and prisoner transfer and it showed. Comfort had never been on the agenda. “We can do without a friendly fire incident.”

It was easy to believe that they were at war, looking around them; the area was almost deserted and there were no sign of any other military force, hostile or friendly. EUROFOR had deployed the equivalent of two divisions to Poland, but they were spread out to provide hasty reactions to any Russian cross-border raid into the refugee camps in eastern Poland. From what Anastazy had said, some of the Poles would be quite happy to allow the Russians to destroy the camps; the refugees were either competing for Polish jobs or merely a drain on Polish resources. The Polish army was deployed near the border, at least, some of it was; European pressure and economic constraints had prevented the Poles from a full mobilisation.

They passed a handful of Polish tourists, who gaped at the military convoy as it passed by, before being left alone again. Anastazy had admitted that there were fewer cars in Poland these days; Poland was already too dependent on the Russians for energy supplies and had been rationing fuel for nearly a decade. Warsaw and the other major cities had a new system of electric trams that used power from the European-designed nuclear power plant ten kilometres from the city… and closer to Robinson’s position than he could have liked. He had grown up near Torness Nuclear Power Plant, but the thought of being near a nuclear plant in a weapons free zone chilled him.

His mind slipped back to the base at Rheindahlen Military Complex, Germany. The EUROFOR briefer had made them work for their supper, both ensuring that his company had the required number of German, French, Polish and Spanish-speaking soldiers, and ensuring that he understood the ROE. The ROE were basically simple; he was not to engage any targets unless his command was either under attack, or had orders to engage targets. He was grimly aware that his unit would be out on a limb if there were serious problems; the sixty men of his company would be isolated from the remainder of the regiment.

“Bastards,” he muttered, as he checked his terminal. The Americans had designed the system and EUROFOR command had fallen in love with it, even though every soldier worthy of the name would have preferred more tanks and guns. It was communicator, computer and GPS system all in one, allowing him to accept orders from Brussels without having to go through the British command system. The other soldiers had shared his disdain; one French Captain had rudely remarked that it meant that they couldn’t do anything without asking permission first. He had been a paratrooper, much to Robinson’s amusement; were they going to be parachuting EUROFOR into its positions? A French armoured or infantry division would be much more useful.

“Russian bastards,” Anastazy agreed. His voice was disdainful; the Poles both hated and feared the Russians, not entirely without reason. The Polish Government had been horrified at the restrictive rules of engagement, which would almost certainly allow the Russians first shot if they were plotting something, but the European Defence Commission had stuck to their guns. “Nearly there…”

They came around a corner and reached a small hill. Someone had been busy; there were signs everywhere informing the Polish public and tourists that the entire area was off-limits. He inspected it quickly as the jeep drove around the hill; they could set up the radar on the hill, and then deploy the other soldiers around the hill, providing protection for the CADS units.

He glanced over at Anastazy. “How large an area have you cleared?”

“Around a kilometre, centred on the hill,” Anastazy said. “We didn’t want to risk an accident where one of your men shoots a farmer.”

Robinson nodded. Accidents happened and some of them had nightmarish consequences. He tapped a command into his terminal and then shouted at the driver to halt the jeep, bringing them to a halt just outside a fallow field. It would make an ideal place for the tents, he decided; it would spare them the horrors of Russian-built barracks. The trucks came to a halt behind him and the soldiers spilled out, helped along by shouts from the Sergeants and Corporals. Robinson was proud of them; some of them might have been bastards, but they were good men to have behind you in a firefight. Most of them had seen combat before.

“All present and correct, sir,” Sergeant Ronald Inglehart reported. Despite his name, he was as black as the night, a Jamaican who had enlisted in the British Army and served for several years as an NCO. He was the toughest son of a bitch that Robinson had ever met, always ready for a fight — and yet he was also one of the kindest men imaginable to his old mother. “No desertions to the fleshpots at all!”

Robinson had to smile. “Secure the area, and then set up the tents and field kitchen in that field,” he said. The orders, he was sure, were unnecessary; Inglehart would have done everything without a young Captain teaching his grandmother to suck eggs, but they had to be given. “I’ll deal with the CADS.”

The CADS themselves looked like something out of Captain Scarlet; a short squat set of lorries, carrying four missiles on their roofs. He'd seen the videos; the CADS could engage four different targets at the same time, reload, and engage four more, until they ran out of missiles. Each truck carried twenty-four missiles; one of the supply lorries carried a complete set of replacements for all three of the units. He had heard that the RAF, upon attempting to penetrate an area defended by a single CADS unit, had lost five Tornados to their fire. It had all been simulated, of course, but it suggested that the company would have some protection from aerial attack.

Lieutenant Benjamin Matthews saluted as Robinson came up. He hadn’t been idle while Robinson had been deploying the company; his crew had all dismounted and were running basic systems checks. There were twelve of them, four of them women, something that might cause problems later. The Company had seven women, but all of them were very definitely off-limits; the CADS crewers might be courted by bored and horny soldiers. Robinson made a mental note to consult with Anastazy about nearby brothels; the mental state of the company had to be treated with care.

“We are ready to deploy on your command,” Matthews informed him. Technically, Matthews wasn't in the same chain of command, but Major-General McLachlan had been very clear on the subject. Matthews would serve under Robinson as long as they were guarding the godforsaken hill. “One of the missiles developed a fault, but the others all read out as working fine.”

Robinson eyed the missile that two of Matthews’ crew were carrying away from the trucks. “Is that thing safe?”

“We removed the warhead and the propellant,” Matthews said. “The problem is in the computer chips that are supposed to guide it to its target; they weren’t working right.”

Robinson scowled. It seemed that the more advanced equipment became, the more things that could go wrong… and were impossible to fix on the spot. The missile would be sent back to Germany, where the technicians would try to find a replacement for the computer chips and send it back to them. Missiles were expensive; no one would just junk it.

“Good,” Robinson said absently. “You have to deploy now, then we can report back and hopefully spend a couple of weeks getting bored out here.”

The camp slowly took shape. The entire area was searched twice, finding nothing, but a handful of birds and wild animals, and then the real work began. Sergeant Inglehart organised it all, from sensors designed to detect anyone approaching to organising regular patrols around the outskirts of the camp. Robinson would have been happier with a fence or something that would keep ramblers out, but EUROFOR Command had refused to allow permission; they would just have to be careful. The first mobile radar was deployed on the hill, an insulated cable leading down from the hill towards the CADS systems, limiting the amount of electronic emissions that an enemy could pick up. Robinson wasn’t impressed; the radar itself would attract attention, a perfect case of penny wise, pound foolish.

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Matthews assured him, when he said that out loud. “The radar itself is a target, sure, but only when the radar is activated. In an ideal world, we would be taking readings from ground-based radars further to the west and merely shooting at the targets using their readings. If we do use the radar, and we are going to have to use it, any missile launched at it will not take out the actual missile launchers we have here, while we can move them to prevent the enemy from locking on to their positions.”

He tapped a command into the mobile command system. “Now… let’s see.”

The display lit up, seemingly reporting hundreds of unknown targets. The computer went to work, tracking IFF signals and microburst transmissions, identifying nearly a hundred targets as civilian airliners from Russia, Germany and Sweden. Other aircraft proved to be Polish helicopters or Eurofighters; the Russians themselves were flying a Combat Air Patrol of MIG-41s — Flatpacks, according to the western designation — a hundred kilometres to the east.

“There’s more traffic than I would have expected,” Matthews commented. “Of course, with all the instability in Ukraine, a lot of traffic has been routed over Russia and then over Belarus, rather than risk flying directly over Ukraine and panicking someone. It doesn’t make sense, but what do you expect?”

Robinson shrugged. “Do we have a direct link into the EURONET?”

Matthews nodded. “Yep,” he said cheerfully. His face twisted into a smile. “We’re getting data from them and they’re getting data from us.”

“Good,” Robinson said. “I want you to maintain a permanent watch on events, with at least three people on duty at any one time, understand?”

Matthews’s face twisted slightly, Robinson could almost read the thought in his mind. Asshole. It didn’t matter; they were deployed to maintain the safety of Poland and even though neither of them really expected trouble, he was determined to ensure that it wouldn’t manage to surprise him, should trouble actually come knocking.

“I understand, sir,” Matthews said. More Russian aircraft blinked into existence on the display, low-level anti-insurgency aircraft, deployed in Belarus. “We will treat this as a military situation.”

Robinson quickly inspected the camp, finding it excellent; Sergeant Inglehart had outdone himself. The conditions would be Spartan, but they would be tolerable until they had to move to Warsaw, or took leave when some new detachment was spared. He had been informed that EUROFOR intended to rotate them pretty regularly, but he would believe that when he saw it; EUROFOR POLAND had too many tasks and nowhere like enough men to handle them all. He shrugged and made plans to engage in more training and exploration of the surrounding area tomorrow, then started to compose an electronic message to Hazel in his head.

He missed her already.

The Polish guards at the main gate into the military camp were brisk, but firm; a female guard inspected every last inch of Caroline Morgan’s body before allowing her access to the camp. She had had boyfriends, even one who had had an ass fetish, who hadn’t explored her body with such thoroughness. The privacy hadn’t made it any easier to take; she had been all-to-aware that there were armed guards outside who would burst in if she made any noise at all.

It was odd, she reflected, as she dressed again under the watchful eye of the Polish guard. The Poles provided most of the security for EUROFOR… and they were utterly paranoid when it came to maintaining security, even to the point of making themselves unpopular with the press by sending back any reporter who gave away something that enemies could use against EUROFOR. They were desperate to keep their country safe, even if it meant annoying the reporters; Caroline wasn't sure if that was admirable, or just irritating.

“Right this way,” her escort said, and led her though a maze of Soviet-era buildings. The camp had been built back when the Red Army had occupied the country… and the Poles hadn’t improved it much, even if some enterprising Polish officer had planted some apple trees in the middle of the camp. Soldiers, some of them in full battle dress, were everywhere, all of them trying to organise EUROFOR into something that could actually put out more than one regional fire at once. She’d heard enough to know that rapid reaction forces had been flown all over Poland at the drop of a hat, only to get there too late, or be called back before anything could actually happen. “Major-General McLachlan is in this building here.”

There was a Union Jack in front of the building, marking it out as a British building; it was something that the European Defence Commission hated. They had an uphill fight to prevent it from happening; she could see a French and Dutch flag just in the camp alone, and there were detachments from nearly a dozen nations in Poland. The bureaucrats would probably win in the end, she was sure, but it was surprisingly good to see all of the flags. She wasn't sure why.

“You must be Caroline Morgan,” Major-General McLachlan said. “Welcome to Camp Three.”

Caroline smiled. “Camp Three?”

“All the proposals for names were shot down,” McLachlan said. “Some places have names that they couldn’t get rid of easily — Rheindahlen Military Complex, for example — but this place was soulless even back in the days of the Red Army. I understand that you wanted to be attached to this unit?” Caroline nodded. “Who did you piss off to get that job?”

Caroline laughed. “My supervisor wanted some background impressions on how EUROFOR was shaping up as a military machine,” she said. It was truthful, as far as it went; the BBC needed to prepare itself for the coming elections. The people of Britain were hungry for news and the BBC had to provide or lose even more of its market. “I got the short straw.”

McLachlan laughed. He had a surprisingly deep laugh. She found herself liking him on sight. “He wasn’t just trying to get into your panties?”

“The first woman who gets him interested will be the first,” Caroline admitted, remembering the resolutely gaysexual activities of Fell Nelson. There was a moral in that somewhere, perhaps young men and women should be made to cover their faces when they were interviewed. Many of his staff complained of sexual harassment, something that wasn’t new in the recording business, but mostly it was male on female. “No, I just drew the short straw.”

“Lucky you,” McLachlan said. He met her eyes. She was almost lost within soft brown eyes that seemed to harden, then soften, at will. “I assume you read the background material?”

Caroline nodded. “I read everything they gave us,” she said. She had too; it was long on glossy photographs and elaborate statements of principle, but short on actually useful details. “Most of it was quite bland and uninformative.”

“Don’t breach security here,” McLachlan advised. His voice had become very serious. “The Poles will arrest you, send you to an uncomfortable jail and charge you with malicious accidental espionage. Don’t rely on the Court of Human Rights getting you out, either; after it was proven that that young reporter fool from Portugal caused the deaths of three soldiers…”

He smiled thinly. “Apart from that, we will be showing you everything within the camp,” he said. Caroline gulped. Was there any way for her to be certain that she was not breaking any security laws? “Do you have any specific questions?”

“A few,” Caroline said. She forced her smile up a few watts. “Do you feel that EUROFOR is a viable military force?”

McLachlan’s smile vanished. “A truthful answer?” Caroline nodded. “The truth is that if we had all the units we were promised, we would be the most powerful force in the region. We were promised ten divisions; what we have is around two divisions, many of whom have never worked together before, trained together, done anything together… does that answer your question?”