War with Russia

2230 hours, Friday, June 2, 2017

TREV WALKER KNOCKED on the door of the functional, if cramped, office used by the Prime Minister in the Palace of Westminster and walked in. As he did so, that much-quoted line of Harold Wilson, a former Labour prime minister, came to mind: “A week is a long time in politics.”

A lot had happened that past week. First had come the dreadful news of the sinking of HMS Queen Elizabeth, pride of the Royal Navy. The news had stunned the country, to be followed by an outpouring of anguish and fury, directed first at the Russians who had perpetrated this atrocity. Then, increasingly, at the politicians and top military brass who had allowed this to happen. Nearly 900 men and women, sailors and marine and army commandos—the commandos laden down with bergen rucksacks, body armor and weapons, as they were preparing to disembark—had died in minutes, when the ship went down.

It was a figure beyond the comprehension of a nation that knew only the flag-draped coffins of the comparatively few servicemen and women who had been repatriated from the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. This was a casualty count not experienced since the Second World War. And for the first time ever, large numbers of young women sailors were included in the list of mass casualties. Nor were there many bodies to mourn. Most were entombed inside the carrier, deep beneath the Baltic Sea.

The Ministry of Defense Press Office had done its best to focus on the many acts of heroism; such as the ship’s captain, Commodore Tony Narborough, who had gone down with his ship, and the Executive Officer, Commander James Bush, last seen desperately trying to rescue a young female sailor whose legs had been blown off when the first torpedo exploded under the ship’s magazine. But nothing could stem the growing tide of anger felt by a traumatized nation, which gradually mutated into a stubborn determination to fight back and not to take this outrage lying down.

Of course, Walker reflected, it was inevitable that Prime Minister William Spencer, himself in an advanced state of shock, should be subjected to a sustained attack from the media at the state Britain’s armed forces had been allowed to fall into under his leadership. It had not helped that the newspapers, with deliberate cruelty and despite Walker’s efforts, kept referring to it happening “on his watch.”

Armchair admirals pilloried his recklessness in dispatching ships into a war zone without adequate protection, especially when it became known that a couple more days would have seen a suitable NATO force arrive in theater. The same newspapers that first encouraged and then praised his leadership in sending the Queen Elizabeth were the ones that most viciously condemned him.

Prime Minister Spencer, ever the consummate politician, had instinctively tried to hang on to power. First to be sacrificed had been Mainwaring, the Chief of Defense Staff and, as head of Britain’s demoralized Armed Forces, an obvious and immediate bone to throw to his critics. He had been ignominiously sacked, without the consolation of a peerage, much to his humiliation and the fury of his wife.

However, the Prime Minister’s attempt to put the blame on Mainwaring had not been enough to call off the baying hounds of the media and his increasingly outraged and vocal party, which had conveniently forgotten that they had been happy enough to sanction the various defense cuts when it had been their seats at risk in previous elections.

Walker had quickly seen the way the wind was blowing and tried to tell Spencer that resignation was the only honorable way out. But to no avail. Instead, recalling Churchill’s victory in a confidence debate in the House of Commons in 1942, after the disasters of the fall of Singapore and Tobruk, Spencer had called for a confidence debate, too. Despite an impassioned plea for national unity at this moment of historic crisis, it had, predictably, been a disaster, with one hitherto loyal backbencher after another lining up to condemn the Prime Minister’s leadership and call for his resignation.

Back in “The Den” in Number 10 Downing Street, after the overwhelming vote of no confidence, Walker had rehearsed the traumatized Spencer in the resignation speech he had quickly scribbled for him, before leading the now wet-eyed Prime Minister to face the array of media microphones and TV cameras outside the front door of Number 10. Here, in full view of the world, first pink-faced and finally blubbering like a chastened schoolboy discovered doing something unspeakable, Spencer’s glittering political career had ended in tongue-tied humiliation.

Walker, however, was not one to look back, for this was also an opportunity to further his own interests. He had always maintained close links with the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Oliver Little; tough, ruthless, sardonic, but also a masterly political operator, who had been extending his tentacles of influence across Whitehall to take advantage of the day when the Prime Minister eventually stepped down. That day had now come earlier than anticipated. Nevertheless, Walker was quick to see the opportunity to consolidate his own influence by supporting Little’s leadership aspirations.

All it had taken was the merest of hints to the editor of the Sun and selected others that, while Little had an excellent relationship with the American president, the other leading candidate to take over as PM “carried no weight in Washington.” Unsurprisingly, given the current crisis, the country needed a prime minister with clout inside the Washington beltway. Therefore, it was Little who had seen the Queen that morning to confirm his appointment as her new Prime Minister and head of Her Majesty’s Government. He now sat at his desk; square-shouldered, gruff-voiced and pugnacious, glaring at a clearly unhappy Everage, still Defense Secretary.

“What the hell do you mean there’s nothing that we can do to respond?” The Prime Minister was clearly furious; his jaw stuck out obstinately, as his eyes bore into the wilting Defense Secretary. “Do you mean to tell me that your recommendation to me after the Russians have sunk Queen Elizabeth, with the loss of nearly nine hundred sailors and commandos, is that we sit back and do nothing? You cannot be serious!”

“Well, Prime Minister…” Everage said ingratiatingly in his Estuary accent. Walker was reminded of Dickens’s David Copperfield and Uriah Heep, as Everage, hair flopping over his gaunt undertaker’s face, wrung his hands together and tried to avoid eye contact with the irate Prime Minister.

There was a knock on the door and Walker went over and half-opened it, irritation at the interruption turning to approval when he saw who it was.

“Sorry to interrupt, Prime Minister,” said Walker, noting the relief on Everage’s face at being let off the hook. “It’s the new Chief of the Defense Staff. The police refused to let him in without an escort. He insists on seeing you.”

“Show him in,” the Prime Minister ordered.

Walker fully opened and then stepped away from the door to allow General Jock Kydd—despite accepting a knighthood from the Queen, he had made it known that he was never to be referred to as “Sir”—to enter.

A sudden surge of physical energy, like an electric current, filled the room as Kydd stepped forward and looked around, as if checking where any potential threat could come from. Broad-shouldered, slightly hunched, he rocked gently from foot to foot, fists clenched at his sides, like a boxer sizing up his opponent.

Looking at him, Walker couldn’t help thinking that the new CDS looked more like a bodyguard in a movie about the Kray brothers than the new, professional head of Britain’s Armed Forces. He took in the shaven head, ill-fitting, black off-the-peg suit, white shirt with chest hair poking up above the fastened collar, stringy blue tie, and black, steel-toecapped, “executive super safety” shoes, bought from the Bodyguard Workwear online shop.

On taking over as Prime Minister, Little had immediately appointed Kydd, whom he had first come across in Afghanistan where he had set up a program to bring former Taliban into the political process, as his new CDS. Despite his eccentric manner, Little recognized Kydd’s qualities and the importance of his evident credibility with the Americans. A phone call to Kydd had brought him out of very recent retirement.

Little dispensed with pleasantries. “CDS, I am told by the Defense Secretary that there’s nothing we can do.”

Kydd was in no mood for pleasantries either. “Fucking bollocks, Prime Minister,” he growled. “The shagging war’s not over till the general says it is and this fucking general is not saying that. No fucking way.” He looked contemptuously at Everage, who squirmed and writhed like a demented octopus.

Walker rolled his eyes at the Prime Minister and muttered theatrically in Kydd’s ear. “Go easy on the effing and blinding, mate. We’ve got the point.”

Kydd continued, “Sorry about the language, boss… Where was I? Oh yeah, the Russians may be in the Baltic states, but that doesn’t mean we leave them be. There’s no point in trying to push them out directly. Much better to whip up the insurgency to make them feel the heat, force them to move as many people and as much stuff in there as possible to try to contain it, and then punch for the jugular; somewhere they least expect it and where it’ll hurt the most. Kaliningrad looks good to me… and my mate Dave McKinlay, the Deputy SACEUR in NATO, tells me that they’ve already war-gamed it.”

Walker had never heard of the place, so was glad when the CDS elaborated. “That’s the former East Prussia—Königsberg. It’s a small chunk of Russia between Lithuania and Poland, surrounded by NATO territory; Poland to the south and Lithuania to its north. With Lithuania in flames and the Russians fully occupied trying to control the insurrection, that makes it much harder to defend and much more vulnerable to a surprise attack from Poland, the sea or through Lithuania.”

The Prime Minister leaned forward. “This is more like it. Go on.”

Kydd outlined a possible course of action. The insurgency across the Baltic states was rapidly getting out of control with thousands of men and women now in the forests resisting the Russians, who were discovering they had bitten off very much more than they could easily chew. Britain should support the American lead by providing the support, equipment and training the Baltics needed to enmesh the Russians ever more tightly there. As it was, GCHQ was picking up indications from Russian soldiers on social media and other sources that they were thinning out their garrison in Kaliningrad, in order to reinforce their overstretched troops in Lithuania.

Britain just happened to have a small party of infantrymen working with the Forest Brothers in Latvia, so it might be possible to get eyes on the ground in Kaliningrad. Meanwhile, it was entirely possible for Britain, America and its NATO allies to assemble a force by land, sea and in the air to hit the Russians where it would cause the most trouble for the President with his own people: Russian-owned Kaliningrad.

“Lose Kaliningrad and he’ll be seen as a failure and, in Russia, that makes him a dead man walking.”

“How long do you reckon it’ll take to assemble the forces and what do we need?” asked the Prime Minister.

“It’ll take a good month plus, Prime Minister,” replied Kydd. “And we’re talking about a one-corps, possibly two-corps operation. With three or four divisions on land. Say sixty thousand to eighty thousand personnel, plus a major amphibious effort to put it ashore. I reckon we could pull together a division with the French. The Germans and Poles may be able to combine. If that happened, we’d put it all under the Allied Rapid Reaction Corps. And the Americans have also got 82nd Airborne at immediate notice to move, plus a Marine Expeditionary Force already on its way across the Atlantic. So that’s another corps-sized force. We’ll need to regain command of the Baltic, but the Americans have got 6th Fleet inbound as well as a substantial air effort.”

Walker could see that the Prime Minister liked what he heard. Little questioned Kydd further. “It’s really important that we have a substantial British effort. After all, we’ve taken the biggest hit… Apart from the Baltics that is—”

“OK, Prime Minister. I get that. But the bottom line is that the Armed Forces are still reeling from the cuts made by the last government.”

“What are you implying?” Everage snarled.

Kydd looked down at him. “Since you ask, you’re more on the hook than anyone,” he said bluntly. Then, eyes boring into the hapless Defense Secretary and entirely forgetting Walker’s plea to moderate his language, he added, “And whichever stupid fucker thought they could cut the regular Army by a third and replace it with reserves needs their fucking head examining.”

The Prime Minister sighed and rolled his eyes. “OK, CDS. I take the hit. But what could we, should we do now?”

Kydd thought. “We’ve still got 20th Armored Brigade stationed in Germany, which makes it a bloody sight easier to move it to Eastern Europe than a brigade stuck on Salisbury Plain and on the wrong side of the Channel. With a massive effort—and I’m talking wholesale cannibalization of the rest of the Army—we could give them the manpower, equipment and logistic support to bring them to war establishment… That means proper fighting strength, not some fucking paper strength.

“And be under no illusions, when I say cannibalization, I mean just that. Tank regiments without working tanks, artillery regiments without guns. If anything else blows up in the meantime—like a jihadi attack, Paris-style—we are entirely fucked, because that would mean putting soldiers from tank, gunner, helicopter and logistic regiments, as well as the infantry, outside supermarkets, schools and other potential targets right across the nation… as the French army has had to do. So all our military eggs, what few working ones we have left, will all be in this one basket.”

The PM looked up, stunned at Kydd’s onslaught. “Are you seriously telling me that it’s got this bad, CDS?”

“Yes, and…”

“Rubbish,” Everage intervened, a triumphant look on his face. “We’ve still got eighty-two thousand in the Army and you’re seriously telling us that we’re pushed to find a brigade of five thousand men. We’ve got lots of brigades…”

And now Kydd interrupted him in return. “Every last one of them underequipped and undermanned. To bring them up to full war-fighting establishment we’ll have to fill the gaps from across the rest of the Army. Not only that, many units, particularly logistic units—without which no army can fight—are now dependent on reserves. Great people reserves, salt of the earth, but not easily available in the time span we’re talking about, and there’s lots of gaps in key roles.

“Then there’s equipment. Much of our heavy war-fighting kit, the stuff we’ll need against the Russians, has been neglected as you’ve spent the money on the latest kit to fight the insurgencies in Iraq and Afghanistan—a very different type of war. To put heavy equipment into battle—tanks or mobile guns, for example—you need spare engines, generators and a host of other stuff which we don’t have in our stores any longer. You lot decided to stop spending money on this boring stuff. But if a tank hasn’t got a track pin to hold the track together, a part for the engine, or exactly the right nut to hold the gun in place, then all it’s good for is a museum. You certainly cannot take it to war.

“And, finally, logistics. That’s about getting the fuel, bullets, water and everything else that’s needed to where you need it. That requires a complex supply system from the factory to the front line. Above all, it has to be robust enough to stand the test of combat. And much of that thinking, capability and understanding had been lost.”

“Stop there, CDS.” It was Little who now interrupted. “I’m with the Secretary of State on this. Surely we can send at least an army division and the paras as well. The marines, well, of course, now…”

“Sir.” Kydd now moderated his tone. “The Paras are integrating with 82nd Airborne, as I said. Special Forces have, of course, been gearing up from the start. But a combined arms division? No…”

He gazed at the ceiling for a moment, thinking hard. “Let me try to give you an example of what you,” he nodded at Everage, “have done with your constant and ill-thought-through cost cutting… I take it you know what I mean by a Bailey Bridge?”

Both men nodded.

“A genius bit of kit. Invented in the Second World War and still used today. It’s like man-sized Meccano. The girders bolt together and each girder is designed to be carried by six men. No more and certainly no less. Now, the bean counters ran a calculator over the Engineers and forced them to lose men. So, now there’s only five regular soldiers left to carry each girder and five men are not enough. A few girders maybe, but not a bridge’s worth. Worry not, says the chief bean counter to the press and parliament, the sixth will be a reservist and will be there when we need him. But while number six exists on paper, he does not necessarily exist in reality, as he has not been recruited. And even if he has been recruited, he’s not going to be there in time for what’s happening right now, because there’s not been the time to process him and then train him to the level of the rest of the team. Which means that when we need a Bailey Bridge built to get our men across a river and into battle, the engineers cannot physically build it. Five men cannot lift lots and lots of girders designed to be lifted by six.

“So, what does the ever-resourceful Engineer colonel do? Knowing that it could be the genuine difference between life and death that there is a bridge built when and where it is needed, he begs, steals or borrows a number six from another regular unit. But they now have only four men per girder. Multiply that across the Army and you can see why I tell you we’ve been hollowed out. It will take all our resources just to put together one properly constituted, ready-for-war brigade. That will leave us with loads of cannibalized formations that will be good for casualty replacements, but little else.”

“That’s the first I’ve heard of this,” snapped an angry Everage.

“Naturally,” Kydd replied. “Do you think that a colonel or general is going to tell you he cannot build a Bailey Bridge? What do you think would happen? End of career for him for whingeing for starters. Keep protesting, and too loudly, and I wonder. Court martial? Complaining is not the military way. We improvise until we can improvise no longer. And that is where we are now.”

“And why are you whingeing now, General?” Everage’s voice dripped sarcasm. “I only mention it as you’ve just had the gall to lecture us on what is the military way.”

“Because someone has to tell you. And, if you hadn’t noticed, I couldn’t care a flying fuck. I’m retired anyway.”

“Enough!” The Prime Minister banged his hand flat on a table. “Is there any good news?”

“Well, Third Division HQ has just done a useful exercise with a French brigade, so with some concentrated work-up training we could form a multinational division of two brigades, with an artillery brigade attached… Give me two weeks, Prime Minister, and I’ll give you a force you can be proud of… But you need to engage right now with NATO Heads of State.”

“What do you need?”

“NATO has nearly three and a half million men and women under arms. That far outnumbers Russia’s armed forces. But NATO needs to get its act together and that needs political leadership. Without that, the fucking Russians are going to walk all over us.”

“I’ll get on the case,” the Prime Minister answered, looking at Walker who nodded in agreement.

“You’re going to need to, Prime Minister,” retorted Kydd. “I want you to be in no doubt what I’m talking about here. These are troops from different countries, who have never or only rarely trained together. They fire different-sized ammunition from different weapon systems; they’ve got radios which may or may not talk to one another, and they speak multiple different languages. None of which is exactly clever when you are trying to call down accurate artillery fire, while enemy rounds are killing the men around you, and one mistranslated number might result in a ton of so-called friendly fucking shells landing on you or your mates. There’s nothing simple about this and…”

“General,” Everage interrupted, seeing his opportunity to defend himself. “We’ve listened to you lecture us on our defense cuts, but you know perfectly well that NATO agreed to deliver a reinforced Response Force at the Cardiff Summit three years ago. Now you’re telling us that you can’t deliver what you promised.”

Kydd looked Everage up and down before replying. “Wrong yet again, Secretary of State. You defense ministers sat round a table and then told us lot about the brave new world of multinational force projection and so-called agile fucking forces that you had invented, while you stuffed your faces with lobster and Chateau de Whatever. Who knows, it might even have worked. That is if you hadn’t slashed the very forces you promised each other and removed the budgets that would have allowed us to train together so we could try to make it work.

“Well, congratulations. We emphatically don’t have the forces or working equipment that you will doubtless tell me we have. And we certainly haven’t trained for this. So this will be very touch and fucking go. And it’s only because of the Americans that it might even be possible to pull it all together… and also because I have total respect for our fighting men and women and I believe in the extraordinary things they can achieve when asked to…”

Everage wilted for a moment in the face of the CDS’s vehemence. Then, ever the politician, he drew a deep breath, ready again to argue his corner.

“I said, enough,” the Prime Minister snapped. “Point taken, CDS… How will the Russians react?”

“That’s easy,” replied Kydd. “They’ll threaten to nuke us. For starters, they’ve got Iskander tactical nukes deployed in Kaliningrad.”

“But haven’t they’ve only got limited range and impact?” countered Little.

“Range, yes. Impact, no. Each one of those tactical nukes is many, many times more powerful than the bombs that flattened Hiroshima and Nagasaki. And you may think that is an acceptable risk sitting out of Iskander range in London,” Kydd gave both men a hard look. “But if you’re Polish, German or Danish, and well within Iskander range, you’d take a very different view. Besides, once tactical nukes start getting flung about, it’s a very short step to an exchange of intercontinental ballistic missiles… the really big boys. And then it’s welcome to Armageddon.”

“But surely, even if we’re outmatched conventionally, we’ve still got Trident?”

“OK, Prime Minister,” sighed Kydd, “let me take you through this from first principles. You ask what the Russians will do and I’ll repeat. They’ll do what they’ve done at the end of every snap exercise they’ve called recently. Launch an Iskander tactical nuke as what they call a de-escalatory measure to stop us dead in our tracks and stop us counter-attacking.”

“Hardly sounds to me like de-escalation. Surely them firing a nuke will lead to all-out nuclear war?” asked Little.

“That’s precisely the point, Prime Minister. It’s counter-intuitive… the President knows that there’s no way you are going to risk the destruction of human life in the UK by launching a Trident at Russia in response to his tactical nuke when, by so doing, you can almost guarantee a retaliatory strike from an intercontinental ballistic missile in return.”

“So, how should we respond? We just have to take it on the chin?”

“Sadly, with the state of our Armed Forces as they are today… Yes. That would be my advice. Plenty of people told the last government that to be effective, deterrence needs to be matched at every level, conventional and nuclear. As I’ve just explained, you can’t weaken conventional forces and expect Trident alone to protect you. Conversely, if we did have strong conventional forces, but no Trident, they could easily defeat us by threatening to nuke us and we would have no way of deterring them. By allowing our conventional forces to be run down as they have, our whole defense posture is now dangerously out of balance. When you’re up against a ruthless predatory bastard like the President, that means we are now in a very dangerous place.”

“So those billions spent on Trident were a false insurance policy, CDS?”

“You’ve got it in one, Prime Minister… if they weren’t matched by money spent on strong conventional forces. If you put all your money into Trident, you either accept defeat or you make mutually assured destruction—or MAD—more, not less, likely. Can you put your hand on your heart and say you’d order the captain of the at-sea Trident boat to launch when you know that, whatever happens, millions upon millions in Britain are going to die? I doubt it. When it gets to that point, you can forget the theology of nuclear deterrence. Second strikes and all that. It becomes a moral issue. Are you going to respond to one apocalyptic war crime with another?”

“You’re saying we’d have been better putting our money into conventional defense?”

“Spot on again, Prime Minister, although backed up by Trident; conventional and nuclear deterrence are two sides of the same coin. As I’ve told you, one needs the other to work properly. But there’s more to it than that. It’s one thing to have capability, you’ve also got to communicate your determination to use it. That means telling the world, as your predecessor did, that your army isn’t for fighting but is there for humanitarian relief, is not only downright dishonest, it’s fucking dangerous. Our enemies have been watching and listening. Wars start when one side thinks the other side is so weak it can get one over it. Which is why we are where we now are…”

“So, where does that leave us, CDS?”

“We’re going to have to be seriously clever, Prime Minister,” said Kydd, looking somber. “Either that or kiss goodbye, not only to the Baltics, but to human civilization as we know it… Which is why, right now, I see a sneak attack on Kaliningrad as the only possible option. You need to speak to President Dillon and the NATO Sec General as soon as possible, if we are to begin to get this show on the road before next Christmas.”

Little looked at Walker. “Trev, fix that. As soon as you can, please.”

Then he turned to Everage. “And you’re sacked!”

“But, Oliver,” Everage spluttered in indignation. “You agreed those cuts. You were the one who demanded savings to deal with the deficit. Surely you—”

“Enough,” the Prime Minister interrupted. “I agree. I did. But that was then and this is now. I’ve changed my mind, as I’m entitled to. The military clearly have no confidence in you and nor do I. Leave now. Your resignation speech will have to wait as well. CDS and I have got much bigger problems to deal with.”

1900 hours, Saturday, June 3, 2017

KOMAROV LEANED FORWARD from the bench in the pine-walled banya and ladled more cold water onto the red-hot coals. There was a hiss as a cloud of steam exploded, followed by a throat-catching surge of heat. The President lay stretched out, face down and naked on the towel-draped bench while Komarov, with only a towel wrapped around his waist, picked up a venik, the fragrant, leafy bundle of birch twigs, and vigorously worked it up and down the President’s back, buttocks and the backs of his legs; the traditional way to boost blood circulation and relieve tension and stress.

“You’re not in bad shape for a sixty-three-year-old, Vladimir Vladimirovich.” Even in the banya the usual formalities applied. “Mind you, given everything that’s going on at the moment, Russia needs to you stay fit and strong to lead the country through this war. I’ll program another game on the tennis court next week—plus a couple of sessions on the judo mat.”

The President grunted, sat up and wrapped his towel around his waist. Despite the elation felt throughout the nation at the dramatic sinking of HMS Queen Elizabeth, it had not been an easy week, largely due to the humiliation of becoming an international laughing stock. Komarov was pleased to see that the banya and birching had improved the President’s mood. He looked at the hour-glass by the door; time for the cold plunge pool.

Thirty minutes later, the President, clad in a white, towel bathrobe, sat in the rest area while his live-in mistress, a thirty-five-year-old, willowy former Olympic gymnastics gold medalist, brought him a glass of kvass, the slightly fizzy, sweet-sour, banya recovery drink made from rye bread and flavored with mint so beloved by Russians. Despite the war in the Baltic states, the declaration of Article 5 by NATO precipitating war with the Alliance, followed by the sinking of the Queen Elizabeth in the Baltic, the President’s weekend routine in his dacha, forty-five minutes from the Kremlin to the west of Moscow, was sacrosanct. He’d left the Kremlin after lunch, spent a vigorous afternoon on the tennis court with Komarov, and was relaxing before enjoying dinner and the night with his mistress.

First, though, it was time for the President’s evening VTC briefing from the National Defense Control Center, the grandiose, recently completed, neo-Stalinist building from which Russia’s war effort was directed. However, in place of Lieutenant General Filatov, who commanded the headquarters and usually gave these briefings, the Tatar features of General Mikhail Gareyev, the Chief of the General Staff, filled the VTC picture. Inset on the right of the screen were the impassive faces of the others in the War Cabinet: the Deputy President, Defense Minister, Foreign Minister and Director of the FSB, all patched in from their various offices in Moscow.

“Where’s that general who looks like an Italian hairdresser?” demanded the President.

“Listening in, Vladimir Vladimirovich,” replied Gareyev. “But I wanted to set the scene before he and his staff brief you in detail.”

Komarov was now concerned. His people were telling him that things were not going well in the Baltics, but the Presidential briefings back in the Kremlin this last week, while certainly not as upbeat as they had been the week before, had downplayed any major problems. However, as it was Gareyev giving tonight’s briefing, it could only mean he was about to give bad news. First, he was the only one prepared to talk to the President straight and, second, the War Cabinet must have waited for the President to be at his dacha to deliver this news. That must mean they were afraid to tell him in person. At the end of a TV link the President’s menace was, inevitably, somewhat diminished.

Even as Gareyev began to speak, Komarov detected from the onscreen body language of his ministers and senior advisers that the President’s position was no longer as absolute as it had been only a week before.

Gareyev continued. “The strategic picture is still favorable and our adversaries in the West are fully aware that any attack on us will result in a nuclear response. To reassure you, Vladimir Vladimirovich, you reduced notice to fire in our operational submarines, five of which are deployed at sea with eighty missiles on board. Each missile has sixteen warheads. That means we have a total of three hundred and twenty sea-launched warheads, each capable of completely destroying a major city. We also have our strategic rocket forces with three hundred and five land-based, intercontinental missiles, carrying a total of one thousand, one hundred and sixty-six warheads. Finally, we have our smaller, battlefield systems, such as Iskander, designed to take out specific military targets, but which will still completely eradicate a small city. They are also on a reduced notice to fire. You can see why we are confident about the strategic picture.

“However…” and he paused for obvious effect before delivering what Komarov knew was going to be bad news. “The situation in the Baltic states has changed and is giving ever more cause for concern.” Then, in the clipped unemotional tones of the professional soldier, Gareyev outlined how the Baltic states were aflame with the spirit of resistance and the extent to which Russia had underestimated not only the fury and anger their liberation would generate, but also the level of preparation the three countries had undertaken in expectation of an invasion.

Then he confronted the event that had possibly inflamed the spirit of resistance even more than the brutality of the occupation: the President’s embarrassment in the forest clearing at Ligatne, where he had been filmed on live TV ranting and raving at his security detachment against a backdrop of Russian helicopters being shot out of the sky in a well-planned aviation ambush.

“We have to recognize, Vladimir Vladimirovich,” continued Gareyev, “that after the events at Ligatne, our propaganda line that we are in full control of the Baltics is faltering. Even the Russian speakers are coming out against us and many are joining the insurgents in the forest, so it’s hardly surprising that our adversaries are able to tell a more compelling story. We need a two-pronged strategy in the Baltic states. While imposing the strictest security, we also need to apply economic and social effects to persuade the majority of the population that they will be better off in the Russian Federation. I believe…”

The President held up his hand for Gareyev to stop; he clearly needed to dominate the discussion, not let the general take control as he was beginning to. “Before you go any further, Mikhail Nikolayevich, any more news on the names of who was responsible for the attacks against me and my soldiers last week?”

“Vladimir Vladimirovich,” replied Gareyev, slipping back into his role of tough but utterly loyal supporter. “This was almost certainly a detachment of the Latvian Special Operations Forces supported, as you well know, by a small British military team. Our sources in UK are still working on their names, but it is getting ever more difficult for them to operate there. We know these terrorists are in the forests from a number of intercepts. But they’re only using data-burst transmissions very sparingly and they change location immediately. There’s one hell of a lot of forest out there to hide in.”

Komarov saw the President’s neck flush and knew, from the way in which he held his right hand down on the desk with his left, that it was only with the greatest difficulty that the President was able to restrain himself from shouting at the irritatingly confident general, who was now making excuses for his failure to find the perpetrators.

“I want them captured. Is that clear, Mikhail Nikolayevich,” he said, his voice furious. “I am not prepared to be made a fool of by the British, let alone British Special Forces. Is that clear?”

“We no longer believe these are Special Forces, Vladimir Vladimirovich,” continued Gareyev in a measured tone. “We are informed it is a five-man team of infantry under a captain. They were the only British trainers in Latvia at the time of the liberation and we now know they went into the forest with Latvian Special Forces.”

It would have been bad enough, but just about explainable, if the Presidential humiliation had been at the hands of Britain’s elite Special Forces. But for this to have been the work of ordinary soldiers was doubly embarrassing. Komarov noted the other faces on the screen remained totally neutral, for fear of drawing the President’s wrath.

“If they’re not Special Forces they’ll be easy to pick up. I want that captain, preferably alive. In fact—”

Komarov guessed that the tiger was about to bare his fangs and he was not disappointed.

“I am surprised, Mikhail Nikolayevich, that you dare face me and tell me that these ordinary infantry soldiers can attack your President with impunity and, a week later, you have failed to capture them.”

General Gareyev must have realized that he had overplayed his hand because his tone became conciliatory. “I agree, Vladimir Vladimirovich. It shall be so and this insult to you cannot stand. I’ll put Vronsky, the Spetsnaz major responsible for planning the demonstration in Riga, on the case. He knows the Baltic states and his network is strong. This British captain will be his top priority.”

The President nodded, apparently appeased for the moment.

Gareyev went on to explain that the demands of suppressing the eruption of guerrilla activity across the Baltic states was soaking up Russian military manpower and resources. With estimates of tens of thousands of men and women taking to the forest to fight the Russians as guerrillas—emulating the Forest Brothers’ campaigns of the 1950s in Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania—Russian generals were being forced to strip out manpower from other areas. Ukraine, the southern Caucasus and Crimea were being thinned out, but more were needed. Gareyev confronted the issue head on.

“If we are to crush this insurgency, I need every man I can get my hands on deployed across the Baltic states. Right now. These people are naturals at irregular warfare and unless I concentrate effort against them and crush them quickly, our hold on the three Baltic countries will be jeopardized. Every success just encourages them to think they can win, and pulls in more recruits…” Gareyev looked back at the President from the TV screen. “And you cannot afford for that to happen, Vladimir Vladimirovich.”

His meaning to Komarov and the underlying threat it carried was very clear: the President had to get this right or his position as leader would become vulnerable. Having led the Russians to war, his vision of incorporating the former Soviet republics of the Baltic states into the Russian Federation had to work. If it failed, then those who had supported him in order to see national pride restored would desert him for the unforgivable crime of destroying that very pride.

Komarov could see that the inference was not lost on the President.

“What are you proposing, Mikhail Nikolayevich?” he asked Gareyev.

“I need to thin out our garrison in Kaliningrad,” he said bluntly. “If we try to stay strong everywhere we will be strong nowhere. As I told you, we have thinned out in Ukraine, but I can only go so far. Any more and the ‘dubs’—dumb Ukrainian bastards—will be pushing our forces back and, if we suffer reverses there, that would be the ultimate humiliation. That said, the main threat comes from the Baltic states, so that is where the main effort should be. Kaliningrad is secure and I will leave sufficient forces there. The population is Russian and loyal, so that at least remains a secure base for us.”

“And NATO?” the President asked, as he did at every such briefing.

“No change. Any threat from NATO? Not a chance. First, it is still in disarray, so it will be unable to mount any credible threat against us. Second, even if they had the men, the Western Alliance would not dare undertake offensive operations against Russian soil.”

“To reinforce General Gerayev’s point, does NATO understand that if they ever try to attack Russian soil I will use nuclear weapons, Yevgeney Sergeyevich?” the President asked the Foreign Minister.

“Certainly they do. It has been made quite clear through diplomatic channels that you would not hesitate to use them in the event of either a NATO attack on the Baltic states, or any attack on Russian soil,” the Foreign Minister replied, with all the smoothness of a man used to dealing with diplomats.

Alongside him on the screen, the Deputy President and Director of FSB nodded in support.

“In fact,” the Foreign Minister continued, “just so we are clear, Vladimir Vladimirovich, it has been made known that Russia considers that the Baltic states are once again Russia.”

“Very well, Mikhail Nikolayevich. You may take the increased risk in Kaliningrad… but I want the insurrection in the Baltic states crushed within the month. Is that clear?”

“Very clear,” said Gareyev.

“And that British captain brought to me in Moscow.”

Komarov flicked the switch on the remote control and the screen went blank. The President sat silent, deep in thought. Here, Komarov could see, was a man who had thought he controlled events, but was now beginning to recognize that the dynamic he had started was not so easily controlled. Obviously, the propaganda war was not going as planned. The two NATO ships sunk in Riga and the US airmen slaughtered at Lielvārde had been written off as an unfortunate error—collateral damage. But the sinking of the Eckernförde had so enraged Germany that it looked as if it had jolted them out of their traditional pacifism. Not only were the Germans rediscovering their balls, they were now ready to implement the collective defense guarantee.

The unexpected consequence of these errors was that NATO had agreed Article 5, but that meant little on its own. Certainly, none of the Europeans, except for the British—still under the illusion that they were a serious international player, despite shedding power quicker than a whore dropping her knickers—had looked to be preparing for offensive action. But the President’s extraordinary humiliation at Ligatne had changed the whole dynamic and with it their plan.

Once Britain had signed up to Article 5, HMS Queen Elizabeth had become a legitimate target. However, there had been international TV crews and journalists on board and on nearby ships, some now dead. Footage had gone out to the world of the sudden and unexpected torpedo attack under a sunny blue sky; followed by the mass drownings recorded for posterity on film, with associated sounds. Westerners everywhere could imagine their sons and daughters aboard the stricken ship as it sank.

Now every NATO ship and every base everywhere in the world was on full alert against another Russian attack. Newspapers and TV shows were endlessly debating the legitimacy, or not, of the attack. People who had never even heard of NATO, let alone Article 5, were listening to rolling TV news and programs where experts discussed the importance of signing up for it. And all because the President had taken the Ligatne attack personally and ordered the sinking to get his own back on the British.

Cold, pragmatic self-interest would have left the ship afloat and tolerated the British playing their delusional war games with their undersized and underfunded armed forces. Before long the outrage of the West over the Baltics would have fizzled out and Russia would have been left free to deal with her rebellious Baltic peoples. Instead, a new British prime minister had taken over—a man, it seemed, very unlike his predecessor and with the stomach for battle. The House of Commons vote to implement Article 5 to fight for the Baltic states, which would almost certainly have been knife edge or rejected before the sinking, had passed with a massive majority.

Now even the most cynical foreign observers of the British scene were remarking at the return of the “Blitz” spirit of 1940. Even more unexpected had been the reaction of hitherto pacifist Germany, where the Bundestag and Constitutional Court had been almost bellicose in their support for Article 5. Meanwhile, it looked as if America under its new president, despite its much-heralded Asia–Pacific pivot, might be about to refocus on Europe and resume its infernal interference with European defense. This was despite the President’s clever move in repatriating the American bodies and prisoners taken at Lielvārde air base in Latvia with due ceremony, in an effort to make some sort of amends, and try and draw a line under the matter. In Moscow and St. Petersburg, word had it that the intelligentsia, hitherto uncritical supporters of the President, were whispering—very quietly—that all this had come about because the President had lost his temper and become a laughing stock.

And now, the President had just ordered General Gareyev to put Major Vronsky, his lead operative in Latvia and the man currently charged with hunting down the leaders of these Forest Brother terrorist cells, to finding a lowly British captain of infantry; a man so unimportant that he hardly even counted as a pawn in the deadly game of geopolitical chess they were now engaged in. That more than anything made Komarov wonder whether the whisperers might be right; that the President was losing his sense of perspective and with it his grip. He prayed he was wrong because, as the President’s enabler, it would be a very exposed place to be if the President insisted on making any more poor decisions.

At that point the President’s mistress entered the room. “Darling,” she purred as she ruffled the President’s sparse hair. “Have a glass of champagne. Our dinner is nearly ready…”

Komarov promptly stood up and left the room. The fact that the War Cabinet had not warned him that Gareyev would give the President this very downbeat briefing meant that they were talking to one another, but no longer to him. The tectonic plates looked as if they might be shifting. It was time to start making some new alliances.

1345 hours, Monday, June 5, 2017

PETE CHIARINI, THE President’s Executive Assistant, walked through the door and sat down in the easy chair by Colonel Bear Smythson’s desk.

“Jeez, Bear,” he said to Smythson, who did the same job for General Abe MacWhite, the chief in-house adviser to the President of the United States on national security issues. “There’s been one hell of a change in British attitudes. The President has just come off the phone with Oliver Little, the new Prime Minister. What a change from that fag who was there before. This new guy’s seriously on the war path. Whatever you say about the Brits—and their bullshitty Downton Abbey accents and stiff-upper-lip crap don’t fool me—they take some time to get going. But when they decide to get serious, boy do they go for it.”

Bear leaned back in his chair. “So, they’re rethinking things after the Queen Elizabeth?”

“Too right, Bear. The President is pretty wound up about the Queen Elizabeth, specially coming on top of the killing of US Air Force troops in the attack on Lielvārde air base. She sees the return of the survivors and the bodies as rank cynicism by the President. Sort of damned if he did return them and damned if he didn’t. And the fact that the Russians are hanging on to the Ukraine Four, as the press are now calling them, as they continue to insist they are Special Forces, has got her even more riled up.

“The Russians are playing this all wrong. Even if President Dillon wanted to find a way to avoid further conflict, she’d be hard pushed to. Don’t forget, there were CNN and Fox News crews on board and a couple of journos… Some of them still missing, presumed drowned, like the rest of those poor bastards. Killing our boys and girls in Lielvārde was not clever. But killing fellow journalists? That’s sacrilege. The press is talking about the Special Relationship and meaning it for once. Throw in the shared tragedy and the new empathy between her and the Brit prime minister and this is certainly rekindling our link with the Brits. She and Little are now totally aligned on the need to take the offensive against the Russians. The Brits are putting everything they can into the mix. The new UK Chief of Defense is pushing hard for an attack on Kaliningrad to unhinge the Russians and force them to swap the Baltics if they want it back. And the Prime Minister’s right behind him. The President wants to discuss the idea with NSA at the two-thirty meeting.”

“Thanks for the fast ball, Pete!” exclaimed Bear. “I’ll brief the boss now, so he’s warned off. But don’t expect anything but first thoughts. The General is the most aggressive soldier I’ve ever served under, but only once he knows a plan will work. This is going to need some serious thinking and planning, but we’ll have something for the President in the Woodshed shortly.”

There was no answer. Chiarini was already out of the office and Bear started firing up his computer.

Forty minutes later President Lynn Turner Dillon walked into the Situation Room, elegant and poised as ever, with not a hair out of place. As the door was closed behind her by the Secret Service agent on guard, she exuded the energy and freshness that a daily combination of gym and Pilates sessions ensured.

Standing up with all the others as she entered, Bear felt an almost physical sense of the power she gave off. The graver this crisis became, the more assured became her leadership.

I know how lonely command in war can be, he thought. But, dammit, she’s just thriving on it. What was the saying? Cometh the hour, cometh the man? This time it was firmly cometh the woman… and what a woman.

With the President seated, MacWhite, the tall, lean former Special Forces general, who looked as if he’d be more at home riding the range somewhere out West than inside the Washington beltway, led the President through the agenda. They would start with the intelligence update before considering the strategic options.

MacWhite let the Int briefer run through a series of PowerPoint slides: the latest positions of the Russian Baltic Fleet at sea; Russian troop dispositions in Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania, calculated at upward of 200,000 men and climbing; estimated strengths of the Forest Brothers—initially some thousands, but already rumored to be climbing toward their 1950s apogee of about 50,000 men and women under arms, including many Russian speakers who had remained loyal to the Baltics and had been outraged by this assault on their much-prized freedom—and the latest digest of attacks against their Russian occupiers. This was followed by an analysis of Russian strength levels in Ukraine and Kaliningrad. For once, the Middle East was relegated to another meeting.

Briefing concluded, MacWhite leaned forward, elbows on the table, a thoughtful frown chiseling deep lines on his leathery, sunken cheeks. “Ma’am, we’re getting a strong sense that the Russians have bitten off far more than they can chew in the Baltic states. The people are responding magnificently and, by God, are refusing to roll over. Thousands, maybe even tens of thousands, have taken to the forests to pursue the fight and the Russians are having ever more problems each day that passes. So it’s interesting that we’ve picked up they may be on the point of thinning out in Kaliningrad, that’s the little Russian enclave between Poland and Lithuania. Their Iskander nuclear armed missiles are there in force, but recent signal traffic plus a lot of vehicle movement from Kaliningrad into Lithuania that we’re seeing on satellite imagery, all indicates that something odd is happening there. The only conclusion we can draw is that they’re getting well and truly pulled in by the Baltic insurgency and they need reinforcements fast, if they are to stamp it out before it gets out of control. It’s what I would do if I was the Russian commander: concentrate resources on the main effort while accepting risk elsewhere.”

“What can we do to support the insurgents?” asked Dillon.

“Simple, ma’am—weapons, equipment, training. We’re preparing to insert liaison detachments of Special Operations Forces from European Command to coordinate support. With your permission, of course.”

“I’m happy with that,” replied Dillon crisply. “Now, tell me what you think of the British idea of getting onto the offensive with an attack on Kaliningrad?”

MacWhite was cautious, the hallmark of a veteran with vast combat experience who knew that once embarked upon, war frequently developed a dynamic of its own; difficult to foresee, impossible to control.

“It’s an interesting idea, ma’am. I gather the idea originated with SACEUR and his Brit deputy, a punchy so-and-so, I gather… a Marine,” he added approvingly. “I gather the idea is that we snatch Kaliningrad and then offer it back to the Russians on the condition they get out of the Baltics?”

Dillon nodded. “Correct.”

“OK, then I’ll need to get the staff to look at the proposition in detail. We’d need to pull together the right force mix and set the political conditions with the NATO members if it is to have any chance of success… and it’s a big ask for NATO to mount an offensive operation. But, no doubt about it, if we could pull it off, it would certainly unhinge the Russians strategically. It’s the last thing they’d expect. But there are a couple of very important factors we need to consider. First, trying to evict the Russians from the Baltic states means taking them on where they are strongest. So, at first glance, that argues for a more indirect approach. But, if they’re thinning out the Kaliningrad garrison, then that is definitely in our favor. The second issue, and by far my biggest concern, is that the Russian President has made it very clear that any attack on the Baltics, or on the soil of Russia, will result in the use of nuclear weapons. No ifs, no buts. And I for one believe him. Those Iskander nuclear missile batteries in Kaliningrad are within range of Berlin, Copenhagen and Warsaw. Which, of course, is exactly why they are there.”

He paused. “That means we have to be clever. I’m hoping the National Security Agency will tell us that they can come up with something very clever on the cyber front—if they haven’t done so already. Any cyber solution will need to cover all command and control systems, not just nuclear. Furthermore, it will need to be something they know will work. The consequences of calling this wrong when we are facing a nuclear response are beyond my imagination.”

“You take that up with them and I’ll set the political conditions,” replied Dillon. “But what are we going to need in the way of forces? What can we provide and what can our allies offer?”

“Ma’am, we’re talking about one of the most heavily militarized regions of Europe here.”

In the short time he’d had to consider this idea before the meeting, Bear had pulled some figures off the Pentagon Intelligence website and handed them to MacWhite, who started reading them out.

“At full strength, and accepting that they might be thinning out, we estimate the Russians have got up to fourteen thousand troops in Kaliningrad, broken down into three fighting brigades, plus artillery, missiles and helicopters. Hardware-wise that works out at over eight hundred main battle tanks, twelve hundred other armored vehicles and over three hundred artillery or rocket systems. That’s a hell of a lot of hardware in a fairly small area. So, this can only work if the Russians significantly reduce those numbers to reinforce the Baltics.”

Dillon was silent as the scale of the Russian troops in Fortress Kaliningrad sunk in.

MacWhite added, “We’d need at least a three-to-one advantage. So, assuming that large numbers of Russians are diverted to the Baltics, that takes us to an attack force of around fifty thousand, a minimum of a corps operation… With some serious anti-armor capability as a starter.”

“Where are they going to come from?” asked Dillon.

“Well, ma’am, following your decision to reduce notice to move on the eighteenth of May, 18th Airborne Corps is pretty much ready to move. The two airborne divisions, 82nd and 101st Air Assault are good to go, while the Global Response Force from 82nd has been in UK since we had to turn it back from landing in Latvia. We also took the precaution of starting to ship the two armored brigades of 4th Infantry Division to Europe. They should be docking in Bremerhaven in the next few days. They’ll link up with the two brigades we’ve moved to Germany, so that will give us a useful combined arms force with plenty of armored clout.

“On top of that, we’ve got 2nd Marine Expeditionary Force out of Camp Lejeune, North Carolina embarked and moving across the Atlantic. Put alongside 18th Airborne Corps that becomes a punchy organization, with all the amphibious capability needed to disembark a strong force. As for maritime, we’ve got 6th Fleet moving up through the Mediterranean at best speed right now and more ships on their way across the Atlantic from Norfolk, Virginia to reinforce them. Air—all we need is in Europe already. So, depending on what the allies can produce, we’ve got the means to do what needs to be done to take down the Russians.”

He got no further as the President lifted up her hand. “Whoa, General… You’ve lost me with all this detail. Take me through all that, one bit at a time.”

MacWhite grinned. “Forgive me, ma’am. I guess my enthusiasm got the better of me. Sure. Bear… ?” and he looked across at Bear, sitting in the cheap seats behind the Situation Room conference table. “Run the President through the slides you prepared for me before the meeting, will you.”

Bear systematically went through the make-up of the force, slide by slide. Dillon listened carefully, making occasional notes on a hard copy of the slides. She asked a number of perceptive questions of MacWhite and then looked at Bear.

“Thanks for that, Colonel… Excellent briefing. Now let me be sure I’ve got the troop numbers right.” She checked her notes and ran through the list she had made. “That’s around forty thousand for the 82nd and 101st Divisions. As well as that there’s the 4th Infantry Division with two brigades, plus the two brigades in Germany, which amounts to close to thirty thousand. Then you mentioned the Marine Expeditionary Force, which you said had a division, an aircraft wing and a logistics group—all amounting to about twenty thousand personnel.” Dillon paused while she totted up the figures. “I make that ninety thousand.”

While Bear was impressed at President Dillon’s readiness to get stuck into the detail, he was slightly surprised at her fixation on numbers. A legacy of being a CEO he supposed, where the bottom line was paramount.

Then she turned to MacWhite, “You said that the usual military planning figure for an offensive operation is three to one, so I can see we’ve got the force levels and, no doubt, the equipment which goes with it. But the challenge will be the execution, I guess?”

MacWhite nodded. “We can deploy the manpower but we’re going to have to outsmart the Russians at their own game. What we’ve shown you is the conventional capability that we can deliver. And assuming our allies can pull something together to fight alongside us, that’s a powerful force by any standards. However, the key to success, and the only way we’ll beat the Russians, will be by being cleverer than them. We have to neutralize their strength with our unconventional capability. And SOF, sorry, ma’am, that’s Special Operations Forces, are going to be the key here. I’d rather do that off line with you, if you don’t mind.”

Bear knew that, as an ex-Special Operations Forces commander, MacWhite was naturally reticent in discussing how SOF would approach such a challenge. As he’d once said to Bear, it was not a leak to the enemy he feared, but the inevitable political memoirs that would be bound to follow, which, in describing one solution to a problem, would limit the US from using the same solution in the future.

“Next, we’ll need to wind up NATO to take this on. Although the bulk of the capability will be American, we need to multi-nationalize it in order to get the political buy-in. Let’s face it, ma’am, if the Russians do go nuclear, we assess that it is most likely that they will initially use tactical nuclear weapons to destroy our attacking forces and defend themselves. So, while it will probably be Europe which will take the initial hit, we can take no comfort from that. The Russians will almost certainly escalate to the use of ICBMs, intercontinental ballistic missiles, to which we will be forced to respond, and that means a full nuclear exchange and the mass destruction of American cities…” He needed say no more. The consequences of an exchange of ICBMs was too awful to contemplate.

Dillon nodded, but did not react. Instead, she sat back in her chair at the head of the table and took time out to think and study her notes.

Nobody said a word.

Then she looked MacWhite in the eye. “Abe, we can do this and we must do this. Europe’s defense and security is America’s defense and security. We have taken too much risk and made too many assumptions about the world being a safer place just because it is a smaller place… and we’ve all been caught out. Now we’ve just got to do what needs to be done and let me be crystal clear,” and her voice hardened. “If the Russians go nuclear, even with a tactical nuclear weapon, I’ll have no hesitation in retaliating with ICBMs. So make sure that message is communicated loud and clear on every diplomatic channel. This is one issue we, and the world, cannot afford to have the Russians make any miscalculations about.”

She paused to let the implication of this message sink in then, voice softening slightly, she continued, “Our allies in the Baltic states, freedom-loving, democratic countries, must be freed from Russian occupation and we’ll do it. But, as you say, Abe, we’ll do it cleverly. Now, Pete,” she caught Chiarini’s eye. “Set up a cabinet meeting today so that we can take this forward and then let’s get working those phones. I want to start by reassuring London that America is up for the fight.”

1500 hours, Tuesday, June 6, 2017

THE NORMAL BUSTLE and chatter of diplomats, military staff officers and note takers milling about before an NAC, North Atlantic Council, meeting was absent as McKinlay took his seat next to SACEUR in the conference room at NATO’s Brussels headquarters. A deep sense of despondency hung over the room as Radek Kostilek, the Secretary General of NATO, walked swiftly into the chamber and sat down at the large round table at which the twenty-eight ambassadors of the member states were placed in alphabetical order, behind their name plates and individual national flags. NATO’s failure to deter the Russian invasion of the Baltic states, the heavy casualties suffered by the US Air Force detachment at Lielvārde air base, the sinking of the two mine countermeasures vessels in Riga and, most catastrophic of all, the torpedoing of HMS Queen Elizabeth, had rocked the Western Alliance to its very foundations.

This had been a massive failure by the Alliance; a disaster unprecedented in the history of NATO and the military, political, social and economic consequences were at last sinking in, even in the countries most hostile to overt military action. The frontiers, as well as the balance of power in Europe, were about to change yet again and this time, unlike the end of the Cold War, the democratic West was going to be the clear loser.

Kostilek had confided to Howard and McKinlay before the meeting that he feared the Alliance was on the brink of collapse as a result. Whether NATO was to survive depended on how it reacted to these blows. He had to set the right tone from the start of the meeting, otherwise the naysayers would take control.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Kostilek’s voice, his Polish accent accentuated by emotion, was commanding. “Please stand. We will first hold a minute of silence in memory of the many NATO soldiers and sailors who have only recently given their lives in defense of freedom.”

McKinlay pulled himself to his feet, as did everyone else around the table. As they stood in silence, the flags of member states that had suffered casualties were projected onto screens around the conference table in alphabetical order: Estonia, Germany, Latvia, Lithuania, United Kingdom, United States of America.

Then Kostilek sat down and addressed the Council. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Alliance has suffered grievous blows in recent days as the result of naked Russian aggression against the Baltic states. While we are united in honoring our fallen comrades and in condemnation of Russia, we must also be under no illusions. The purpose of the Alliance since its foundation in 1949 has been collective defense, the rock on which it has been built for sixty-eight years. And yet, when the crisis came, collective defense meant nothing. The Alliance failed. You need no reminding that NATO is no more or less than the nations which make up the Alliance… That means the nations have failed.” He paused and looked slowly around the table, making it clear where he thought the responsibility for failure lay.

Point forcefully made, he resumed. “Let me take you back to the Cold War. Yes, there were fewer member states back then. But our predecessors around this table understood that collective defense needs more than words. That words alone, unless backed by genuinely capable, strong defenses, mean nothing to our enemies. What a contrast to where we are today! The Alliance has spoken loudly, has puffed up its capabilities, but has completely failed to deter Russia. Would Russia have dared to attack strong, resolute, well-equipped and truly ready armed forces… ? I say NO!” He spat out the word.

For a moment there were mutterings of disagreement and annoyance from around the table, exactly as Kostilek had predicted. NATO had faced the massed armies and aggression of the Warsaw Pact for forty years of the Cold War, but peace had prevailed. Why? Because the Warsaw Pact knew that NATO was ready and able to respond. Today’s member states knew this. Hence the looks of shame, of guilt even, on the faces of some ambassadors at his words. It was this, Kostilek had explained to Howard and McKinlay earlier, that he would tap into when he spoke.

He banged the table with his hand and the room fell silent.

“And be under no illusions. The proof is that our brothers and sisters in Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania are now occupied by Russia and the President has decreed that they are to be incorporated into his empire of fear and terror.”

For a moment he softened his tone. “Ambassadors of those countries, dear friends and colleagues, I extend our deepest sympathy… but rest assured,” again he struck the table to emphasize the point and his eyes flashed defiance. “I speak for every nation in the Alliance when I say that we will not rest until you have regained your liberty.”

Kostilek stopped and again looked every ambassador in the eye. As a Pole, he understood far better than those from Western Europe the reality of life as part of the Russian Empire. Some looked down, but did not argue. Others looked back at him equally directly. Some even nodded their approval. The Secretary General had set the tone he was looking for.

He continued, “Dear colleagues all. NATO is an alliance of three-and-three-quarter million men and women under arms. We far outnumber the Russians in men and equipment and resources. United we are terrifying; unstoppable. United, we can put together the means, not only to liberate our dear friends in the Baltic states, but also to defend the freedom, democracy and the rule of law we all cherish… The alternative is too terrible to contemplate. Will you too fall under Russian control? Will you find yourselves the next country in front of this Council, begging for help? Picked off one by one at the President’s whim… Because, be under no illusions, that is what will happen next.”

And now, McKinlay saw, he really did have their attention. It was one thing for the Greeks to get loans from the Russians or on the international bond markets, but quite another to be informed that the interest on those loans now included the gift of a port for the Russian navy, or a base for their fighter aircraft. Even Greece could see that their independence was only possible because she was a vibrant democracy. Anybody who read a newspaper or watched a television had to be able to see that true democracy was anathema to the Russian President.

Kostilek concluded with a clarion call to action. “Let me be clear. NATO has agreed Article Five and we are now at war with Russia. What I want from the North Atlantic Council today is a strong consensus that the end we are seeking is nothing less than the liberation of Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania and that you, the nations, will deliver the military means to achieve that. We must all be prepared to strain every nerve, every sinew in the fight to free the Baltic states.”

He paused to let his words sink in. Then he called upon the American ambassador to speak.

“Thank you, Secretary General. I am under instructions to pass on a direct message from the President of the United States of America to all NATO member states: the US will not abdicate from its responsibilities. Members can be assured that the US is, once again, coming to the support of Europe in its hour of need. We are in the process of deploying significant forces to Europe. The President is determined that NATO will do whatever needs to be done to expel Russia from the Baltic states. America will lead the force and provide whatever means are necessary to achieve victory. The President asks all the nations to live up to their obligations under Article Five and join us in this venture.”

Then came the challenge. “But, if necessary, we will act alone.”

The UK ambassador spoke next. Dame Flora Montrose delivered the UK’s message with her customary brevity. “The UK’s Baltic allies have been attacked and occupied. The Royal Navy has suffered unprovoked attacks on two ships, Queen Elizabeth and Padstow. Hundreds of our sailors, marines and soldiers have been killed. Britain will not stand by and watch this vicious aggression go unpunished. Britain therefore considers itself at war with Russia. Together with the United States and, we trust, all our NATO allies, Britain will do what needs to be done to re-establish peace and legitimacy in the Baltic region.”

There was a surprised murmur from the ambassadors around the table. Here, at last, was Britain stepping forward and taking a lead role in NATO—a welcome change from recent years.

The German ambassador, bulky and glowering, caught Secretary General Kostilek’s eye and was given the floor.

“Secretary General, dear colleagues. Germany’s history gives us a unique perspective and understanding of the impact of unprovoked aggression by a dictator unfettered by the need to conform to democratic institutions. What we have witnessed in the Baltic states is no different in tone from Nazi Germany’s occupation of much of Europe in the Second World War. You will all be aware that the weight of history has continued to weigh heavily on Germany, hence our reluctance to participate in certain international missions where force has been used. However, I cannot begin to express adequately the outrage and horror felt throughout my country at the sinking of FGS Eckernförde and the death of so many of its crew. This, as well as the attacks on our friends in the Baltic states and on the ships and soldiers of America and Britain, has totally changed attitudes in Germany. The Bundestag, the Constitutional Court, and the population as a whole are now overwhelmingly in favor of taking whatever action needs to be taken to expel Russia from the Baltic states. Germany stands by to play a full part in undertaking military action together, we hope, with our fellow NATO members. But without them if necessary.”

McKinlay was conscious that he was witnessing history. Germany, so long the most pacifist nation in NATO, was today sanctioning the use of force. Like so many of his senior military colleagues, he had the highest respect for the professionalism of German commanders and staff officers and the quality of its military hardware, but despaired of that country’s consistent refusal to do anything meaningful with them. Now, once again, panzers marked with black crosses would be heading east. This time it would be in the cause of freedom and not of occupation.

“That’s just what we needed to hear,” he muttered to Admiral Howard, next to him. Then he scribbled a note and gave it to his German MA, Commander Wolfgang Kretschmer of the German Navy, one of the three Military Assistants who looked after the wide span of DSACEUR’s responsibilities and who had recently joined the office.

Kretschmer read it, nodded, and left the room to fix up calls to the Chiefs of Defense Staff of Germany and the UK.

McKinlay listened while a series of ambassadors reinforced the commitment of their countries to taking whatever military action might be needed to liberate the Baltic states, although Hungary and Greece remained silent, neither promising support but no longer—and just as importantly—refusing it either. Judging the moment perfectly, Secretary General Kostilek intervened and summed up the mood of the meeting.

“Ambassadors, I congratulate you on your very positive statements. I see there is unanimity in support of taking whatever action is necessary to liberate the Baltic states. If we get this right, and there is no reason why we cannot, the future of the Alliance is safe. I had no doubt that the nations would rise to the challenge. The question now is what action can be taken. For this we are in the hands of the NATO military authorities… SACEUR, the floor is yours.”

“Thank you, Secretary General,” said Howard. “You will all be aware of the outline proposal we have circulated under strictest security to each of you. I will not repeat what is in that because it is of critical importance that the tightest operational security is maintained… and we can’t do that in open forum in the North Atlantic Council. I propose first that DSACEUR outlines the general force generation requirement so that you understand the scale of the challenge. Secondly, I recommend that we arrange a Top Secret briefing for your military representatives. They will then ensure that you understand what is planned. But, and most important, I now need your authority to proceed with the detailed planning.”

Kostilek concurred. “We all understand that secrecy is vital. Can I take it that the Council approves the proposal that the NATO military authorities take forward the planning of the operation whose outline you have been briefed upon separately?”

There was silence. “I see it does,” announced Kostilek before anyone could disagree or ask questions. “I therefore call upon DSACEUR to discuss force generation.”

McKinlay looked around the table. In contrast to the previous NACs, there was a sense of purpose and a determination he had never felt before. In its blackest hour, this historic alliance, the most successful the world had ever seen, had found the will and determination to fight back.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I will not go into detail now. Suffice it to say that I will be engaging with each of your nations to discuss the detailed force generation requirement for the operation the Secretary General has referred to. Let me leave you with one point: the operation we are planning will require forces on a scale that NATO has not considered since the days of the Cold War. Unless your nations are prepared to support it properly, it will fail. Be in no doubt that the Alliance has the capability if it has the will. As the Secretary General said earlier, with millions of men and women under arms, NATO is more than a match for anything Russia can put into the fight. My staff are now engaging with each of your nations on what we need. I ask you to convey the message to your governments, that only if they are prepared to step up to the mark will NATO achieve success in liberating the Baltic states.”

He stopped and waited for questions. There were none and shortly afterward the meeting was brought to a conclusion by Kostilek. Howard and McKinlay had their green light.

Admiral Howard leaned over to McKinlay when the last ambassador was well out of earshot. “Now, as we discussed, we start preparing two plans. The deception plan and the real plan. You leave the bullshit one for me to sell to the ambassadors and their political masters. Once the information goes back to national capitals and it’s been crawled over by every goddam civil servant, I’m banking on the Russians having a full copy on their desks a few hours after it has been circulated. Nevertheless, I’ll only reveal details with huge reluctance and under enormous political pressure. That’ll help allay inevitable Russian suspicions. You focus on the real plan. And keep it tight. Very, very tight. If the Russians get even a sniff of it. Well…”

An hour later, after yet another high-speed car ride through the Brussels traffic, McKinlay was at his desk in SHAPE, mug of tea in his hand, as the phone call on the secure Brent system was put through to General Reinhardt Jacobsen, the German Chief of Defense Staff, an old friend who had attended Staff College at Camberley with both McKinlay and Kydd, the new British Chief of Defense Staff.

If anyone can get the Germans to deliver something useful, Reinhardt will, thought McKinlay, as the call was being put through. Known throughout the German army as die Lange—or “Lofty,” on account of his great height—soldiering was in Jacobsen’s DNA. His grandfather had parachuted into Crete in 1941 with the Luftwaffe’s elite Ramcke Parachute Brigade and there had never been any question in Jacobsen’s mind that he, too, would be a soldier. A panzer commander to the core, he assured McKinlay that 1st Panzer Division was being mobilized and that Germany had already agreed bilaterally with Poland that it would be reinforced by 10th Polish Armored Cavalry Brigade—all up, around 15,000 men and 150 tanks.

“And David, if you can get the Brits to deploy HQ Allied Rapid Reaction Corps, we’d like to put First Panzer under command of it. That’s an organization which has kept the capability for commanding war-fighting operations and we trust it,” concluded Jacobsen.

The next call was to General Jock Kydd in London.

With the beeps on the Brent secure phone again indicating that speech was secure, Kydd greeted McKinlay as an old friend. “Dave, you bastard. Good to speak. What a fucking shambles. Never mind, we’ll sort it out.”

McKinlay briefed Kydd on the NAC decision to take forward the planning and asked what UK could offer. It was clear that there’d been a change of atmosphere in London with the new leadership after the disaster of HMS Queen Elizabeth. Kydd ran through the proposal; the armed forces had been put on a war footing and reserves had been called up, but would take time to be processed.

Kydd began to fulminate about the idiocy of replacing battle-hardened professionals with theoretical reserves, but McKinlay cut him off. “That horse has long bolted, Jock. Just do what you can with what you’ve got.”

“Sorry, Dave. It’s just that, of all the stupid, fucking, irresponsible gambles, that one takes the shagging biscuit.” And so he moved on to the new Royal Navy task group that was being put together under HMS Ocean and the second amphibious ship, HMS Albion, with a Royal Marine commando embarked to support the American Second Marine Expeditionary Force. Meanwhile, every available RAF aircraft was now fully integrated into allied air operational planning. As for the Army, Kydd had put the British 16th Air Assault Brigade under command of the American 82nd Airborne Division, while the ARRC, Allied Rapid Reaction Corps, headquarters was preparing to deploy to Poland.

“But I tell you, Dave,” went on Kydd, reverting to his usual colorful language, “it’s a fucking unbelievable state of affairs here. When I look back at the Gulf War, it was a hell of a stretch, but we still managed to put together a properly constituted fighting division. Now, thanks to all these defense cuts, we’re having to cannibalize every vehicle in the Army just to get one fighting armored brigade ready for war. Frankly, it’s fucking pathetic and, as you know only too well, Dave, you can do the square root of fuck all with a single brigade. OK, we’ve got a divisional HQ… Just. But we’re going to have to go cap in hand to the French to reinforce us with a second brigade if we’re going to put even a weak division into the field. We’re working round the clock to get the brigade to Poland in the next ten days to start training.”

“That bad?” McKinlay asked, shocked in spite of the reports he had read of tanks and other armored vehicles sitting in sheds minus engines, tracks and other key parts, but still counted as being “on strength.”

“Yup, that bad, Dave. The only thing we’ve got going for us is that we’ve still got 20th Armored Brigade based in Germany. So at least we don’t have to ship everything across the Channel. Nevertheless, the cuts and emphasis on Daesh and the Middle East have meant that they’ve been last in line for what little money has been available. It’s going to be a guinea a minute getting them properly operational again.”

“But you reckon you can?”

“Just you watch. My size tens are going to start connecting with shiny MOD arses in the next few seconds.”

“I’d pay good money to see that!” McKinlay chuckled at the thought of the foul-mouthed Kydd kicking ministers and civil servants alike. Then he grew serious again. “We haven’t talked eyes on the ground. We’re going to need our people in and soonest. NATO Special Operations Forces here in SHAPE are coordinating Allied support to the Forest Brothers in all three Baltics, but we need someone in Kaliningrad. Any thoughts on UK Special Forces?”

“Too fucking right, mate,” came the immediate response. “We’ll ensure they’re properly coordinated with NATO SOF and we’re working to get something in there ASAP. However, we’ve got a small team on the ground in Latvia right now… more by accident than design.” He explained how Morland and his team of Mercian soldiers were now operating underground with the Forest Brothers. “But we’ve got to move them,” Kydd went on. “GCHQ has picked up that the Russians are on to Morland and his guys. What’s so fucking odd is that it sounds as if the President himself has ordered Morland’s capture. Blames him for getting his face and arse rubbed in the mud by his security guys. They reckon it’s got personal, because some dicky-bird has told us that Russia Today has a camera team on standby for when they bring Morland in. The President must be losing his fucking marbles to get so wound up about one young infantry captain.” He laughed sardonically. “It’s long been bloody obvious that he’s a self-obsessed nutter. However, until he had this little hissy fit, I had rather assumed he was something of a cool operator.”

A thought occurred to McKinlay. “Any chance of getting this Morland into Kaliningrad? These Forest Brothers are all interconnected and know the ground better than anyone else. They’ll be our best chance of slipping him over the border undetected and, if necessary, they could pass him on down their chain. With luck, he’ll be able to snurgle around with guys who really know the terrain. Then we could reinforce the deception by sending UK SOF to recce routes into the Baltics. The Russians are bound to focus on what they’re up to.”

“Good idea, Dave. Director Special Forces was in my office earlier having heart failure as to how to get his guys into Kaliningrad. The border with Poland is out, as it is so short and heavily defended. The Shaky Boats[4] think that going in by sea is suicide and I tend to agree. If they try HAHO’ing or HALO’ing in blind, the chances are they’ll land on a Russian bayonet or at least a Russian. They are nearly all Russian there and they’ll be reported in a moment. No… I like it, Dave. Coming in from the north and through Russian-occupied territory has to be the sneakiest way in. Consider it done.”

The phone went dead. Kydd’s mind had clearly moved onto other things that needed chasing in London.

0403 hours, Thursday, June 8, 2017

MAJOR ANATOLY NIKOLAYEVICH Vronsky, of 45th Guards Spetsnaz Regiment, checked his watch once again as he had done incessantly for the past hour. However, much as he wanted time to move on, it was refusing to do so and the luminous dials told him that it was still another twenty-eight minutes until 0431 and sunrise. That was when the attack on the camp was due to go in; a half-light to help his men see where they were going and distinguish between friend and enemy: dozy defenders doubtless awoken from a deep sleep and unable to react in time.

So far things had gone entirely according to plan, so now there was nothing to do but suppress his anxiety and wait. Even as he felt a drip of water find its way down the back of his neck he smiled: the light rain that had just started to fall was just what was needed. The soft pitter-patter of rain on the forest canopy would help mask any sound his team made as they moved in for the kill.

He stifled a yawn. The damp from the forest leaves he was lying on was soaking up into his body and his eyes felt heavy. It had been a long night’s patrol through the forest to move into position without being detected, and that after a day silently closing in on their enemy. His body craved proper food and drink after a couple of days’ hard routine; no cooking and only an occasional swallow from his water bottle, a couple of packets of dry crackers, and an unheated can of unidentifiable fish to sustain him. Enough of feeling sorry for yourself, this would soon be over, he told himself, and then it would be back to the barracks at Ādaži for a celebratory drink and a large steak; the Latvians had certainly known how to look after themselves and their Russian successors were enjoying the rations they had left behind.

Now it was time to focus. Once more he ran a mental check on the plan and the rapid pace of events that had brought him into the forest to attack this base, belonging, it appeared, to a particularly effective group of Latvian Forest Brothers. What still surprised him was the direct Presidential order he had received five days ago: to capture the British terrorists. Not for the first time, Vronsky questioned the wisdom of getting personal because, grateful as he was that the President had entrusted him with this mission, it smacked of the old-fashioned peasant vendetta. However, his orders could not have been clearer.

Certainly the Commander of the Western Group of Forces had taken the President’s orders as his personal command and had stopped at nothing to locate them. Their communications specialists had only a few short intercepts of data-burst transmission to work on. However, despite the considerable efforts of whoever was transmitting to avoid creating a pattern, computer analysis allowed them to zero in on the deep forest in the northern, most remote part of the Guaja National Park, close to the Gauja River, an area almost unmapped and visited only by the occasional hunter.

Aerial searches by Zastava drones carrying full-motion video and multispectral imaging sensors, integrated with forward-looking infrared capable of detecting the radiation from a heat source beneath the forest canopy, next revealed a number of potential hiding places deep in the forest that suggested recent habitation. Although, whether by humans or bears was a moot point and required boots on the ground, rather than a heat-seeking lens in the air.

And then, four days ago, the searchers had struck lucky. A short text message from a mobile phone had been picked up from within a hundred meters of one of the possible forest hide locations. Surveillance drones had then revealed movement on both foot and by cross-country motorcycle. The link was made with the President’s attackers two weeks ago—they had escaped on scramblers—and Vronsky had been ordered to mount the operation as a matter of urgency.

Time had been short and while Vronsky was confident of his Spetsnaz team’s ability to find, attack and neutralize the insurgents, he was very much less confident of the professionalism and combat experience of the battalion that would establish the all-important inner and outer cordons. But they were all that was immediately available.

At least the fact he had been personally selected by the President gave him the ultimate say in how the operation should be executed. Nevertheless, as a major, Vronsky still had to take account of the lieutenant colonel commanding the conscripts of the local Motor Rifle battalion, who would provide the cordons. Vronsky assumed that they must know the local area by now, but even on that count he had been disappointed; the nervous young soldiers had started off by patrolling into the woods, but as the numbers and effectiveness of the resistance increased, ever fewer came back out. Now they kept to the roads and their defended blockhouses as they were too few, and the forest too large, for them to be able to patrol in strength.

Had Vronsky known this from the outset, he would have insisted on being backed up by an airborne battalion or more Spetsnaz, but it was too late now. The Int and Comms boys had narrowed down the hide area to within a hundred meters and they had to attack before the murdering bastards moved, as was their habit. They were not proper soldiers, Vronsky mused; proper soldiers stood and fought. Terrorists bombed, shot and ran away, which is why a wall was awaiting all but this one man: Morland. Probably, Vronsky mused as he worked up his ambush plan, by the time the President had finished with him, he would have opted for the wall. Nobody had ever accused the President of being a forgiving man.

Vronsky had given his orders and the operation had been rehearsed several times; first by the companies individually and finally by the whole battalion working together, by day and then by night. They were as ready as they’d ever be, and so they had moved out. Now he was here and there was nothing for it but to hope that the young conscripts would not screw things up at the last minute.

This had meant keeping the plan as simple as possible. Without the President’s demand for Morland intact, Vronsky would have slipped unseen into position and pinpointed the target with a laser designator at a set time. Some smart bombs dropped from a distance and there would have been nothing left to put against a wall. Instead, he had been forced to set up a camp attack. It would be launched from one side of the insurgent hideout with the simple aim of making the outnumbered and shocked Forest Brothers bug out in the other direction, straight into the ambush where Vronsky was now lying in wait.

The inner cordon, behind him, was the “backstop” in case anyone got through his ambush position. There was also an outer cordon, which would prevent any interference from elsewhere in the forest. Very simple but very effective, and very much the plan he would have used even with an airborne battalion. But it was the quality of the individual soldiers that was worrying Vronsky. Once the rounds started flying, would the conscripts hold their position and shoot back? Would they shoot straight, or perhaps even shoot each other in the inevitable confusion? For that he had no answer and no solution. So he tried not to worry about it.

The message had come through at midnight that the cordons had been established, with heavy weapons even further behind and in support if required.

Vronsky and his team of ten Spetsnaz soldiers then moved noiselessly into their final ambush position. At H-Hour, the feint attack would be launched from the other side of the camp. In order to maximize surprise, it would be launched silently, meaning that if the Forest Brothers had not set guards, the attackers might even overrun the camp without Vronsky and his men getting involved. Not that Vronsky cared. He felt no need to shoot or to be shot at. All he wanted was the right result, regardless of how it was achieved or who achieved it. Unlike the President, he thought bitterly, he did not take things personally. Which was one reason he had continued to survive and thrive, while so many of his friends had become casualties in the various vicious conflicts in the Caucasus.

Vronsky looked again at his watch. The minutes were ticking by in the almost oppressive silence of the forest. And then, to his horror, Vronsky heard from behind him the sharp crack of two high-velocity shots: unmistakably an AK-74M, the standard Russian infantry assault rifle. That was followed a few seconds later by multiple bursts of automatic fire, swiftly followed by a short contact report from the outer-cordon company commander, broadcast into the personal radio clamped to his left ear.

Even as the company commander was reporting an attack on their position by unknown assailants, Vronsky was already raging to himself. “The fools! The oldest mistake and attempted cover-up in the book… A negligent discharge by a bored soldier with an itchy trigger finger, followed by return fire and a spurious contact report.”

“Stand by for the enemy to bug out,” he ordered quietly into his microphone.

The trouble was that the Forest Brothers would now try to escape away from the firing and that meant away from their ambush position. Hopefully though, they would run straight into the assault group, even now preparing to attack. The plan might have cooked off completely arse about face, but it should achieve the same result. Although, whatever happened next, Vronsky mused as he checked the safety catch on his AS Val assault rifle, there was a soldier and his officer who were never going to forget their monumental balls-up today. But that would come later. First he had to destroy this rats’ nest and capture this Englishman. He knew he could rely on his team to do the right thing, so right now, there was nothing to do but keep their heads down and wait for the attack.

And then it began.

Instead of catching them asleep as Vronsky had assumed, rounds launched from M19 60 millimeter American light mortars bought by the Latvian Army began to fall all around them, followed by long bursts from machine guns putting down deadly swathes of fire throughout the forest. And, in that moment, Vronsky realized that he had made the cardinal error of underestimating his enemy. The Forest Brothers, alert and wary as wolves, must have realized that it was almost inevitable the Russians would find them one day, so had planned their counter-camp-attack plans carefully.

While Vronsky had assumed that the bunker itself would be protected by trip wires and claymore mines, he had not anticipated the machine guns mounted on fixed tripods in the sustained fire role, so they could fire long and accurate bursts down pre-recce’d approaches to the camp, or the light mortars, already set up to fire on likely forming-up points for any attack. Even as his ambush plan went to hell in a handcart around him, the professional soldier in Vronsky acknowledged that these Forest Brothers were good; very good. They could even teach him and his men a trick or two. If they survived. But they were not going to survive. The odds were still too heavily stacked against them.

That comforting thought was brutally interrupted as mortar rounds crashed through the trees and exploded above him, sending splinters of wood from broken branches flying like deadly arrows through the air. Next moment, machine-gun rounds scythed a deadly rain of copper-jacketed, high-velocity steel all around him, while the diabolical symphony of explosions and flashing tracer cracking overhead deafened him and made it almost impossible to think. Had he been standing, or up on one knee, he would now be dead.

“Fuck,” he almost screamed to himself as he forced his body as deep into the loamy earth as possible. They had even scouted out this ambush position and set it up as a pre-registered defensive fire location for their mortars. There could be no doubt now: these guys were professionals and they’d rehearsed this response until it was faultless.

Vronsky now knew something else. Unless he moved fast he’d lose his quarry. This first response was fully planned, and that meant the next phase—their escape—would be equally well planned and rehearsed. The GPMGs would soon run out of ammunition or overheat and then the escape phase would start. However, he could do nothing but stay alive until the storm of fire had passed.

Then, just as suddenly as they had begun, the mortar rounds ceased and the machine-gun fire stopped. He lifted his head and looked left and right. As far as he could see there were no casualties, but he wouldn’t have expected any of his team to cry out if wounded anyway. Time to go.

“Prepare to move. Stand by to skirmish, then assault the camp on my order,” he spoke urgently into his radio, pausing to allow his men to ready themselves for the seventy-meter dash through the forest to the camp. “Move now!” Vronsky yelled.

He pulled himself up, his cramped, stiff limbs resisting, and dashed forward as his wingman put down fire from his AS Val assault rifle. As he did so he was aware, left and right, of two or three others moving with him; not enough though. Some of his men must be down already.

Then it was time to dive forward, roll into a firing position, take aim, spot no target but, nevertheless, fire off a couple of rounds at the forest camp; then quickly roll over and put more bursts of fire down as his wingman ran forward. As he prepared himself to dash forward again, he heard the unmistakable, high-pitched whine of a motocross bike in high gear.

A number of “pops” sounded nearby. Then white smoke started billowing up around him, obscuring the forest, making identifying anything impossible. Bloody smoke grenades, he thought, all part of their escape plan.

Next moment, and through a gap in the smoke, he spotted a Honda motocross bike roaring past. It had a Latvian driver but there was a differently dressed soldier riding pillion. For a moment his eyes locked with the passenger, who stared at him, frowned and then loosed off a couple of wildly aimed bursts of fire from what looked to be a British-issue rifle.

Before Vronsky could return fire, the bike careered around a corner further along the narrow track and, next instant, was lost to sight among the trees.

Vronsky’s photographic memory kicked in, despite the mayhem all around him: dark-haired, bearded, late twenties, unfamiliar combat uniform, standard British army SA80 rifle; he must be British. Then disappointment and anger hit him like a double punch to the solar plexus.

That’s my quarry and he’s escaped…!