War with Russia

1200 hours, Thursday, July 5, 2017

THE JOINT CHIEFS’ Conference Room, known universally as “The Tank,” was silent as the briefer outlined the detail of the plan to President Lynn Turner Dillon. Colonel Bear Smythson sat in his usual hardbacked chair, pushed up against the wall; not a main participant, but a silent observer. Flanking the President at the broad conference table in the utilitarian surroundings, much like any other conference room in a budget-conscious corporate office, sat the gray-suited Secretary of Defense, the National Security Advisor Abe MacWhite, together with General Marty McCann, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs and, finally the Chiefs of the Army, Navy, Air Force and US Marine Corps; the elite group of men who commanded and directed America’s war machine.

Bear reflected on the events since the world had been turned upside down early on that May morning, two long and sleep-deprived months ago. Whatever the sacrifices demanded of him and his family as a result of his commitment to this job, he was all too conscious that, once again, he was in the extraordinary position of being a witness to history, as he listened to the briefer explain the plan to expel Russia from the Baltic states.

Next the briefer detailed the impressive forces that had been assembled, a testament to America’s still vast military might: 6th Fleet and 2nd Marine Expeditionary Force were now poised at sea off eastern Denmark, and 4th Infantry Division had been transported across the Atlantic, disembarked at Bremerhaven, linked up with the armored brigades from Germany and was in transit to the Polish training area at Drawsko Pomorskie. The 18th Airborne Corps, around 40,000 men and women in total, was now forward based in the UK, while Special Operations Forces Command had inserted a number of ODAs—Operational Detachment Alpha, the twelve-man basic unit of American SOF—into the three Baltic states, which were working closely with the Forest Brothers. As for air forces, an air armada had been assembled across Western Europe and was at full readiness.

“What are our allies putting into the fight?” asked Dillon.

McCann stepped in and answered the question. “Ma’am, I’m pleased to say that our allies are stepping up to the mark. The British have put their 16th Air Assault Brigade under command of 82nd Airborne Division, which is now training in the UK. They’ve also managed to put together a small division using one of their armored brigades and a French light-armored brigade. It’s undersized, but potent—and at least they’re joining the party.

“As for the Germans, they’ve offered us 1st Panzer Division, which now includes a Polish brigade. All that has been taken under command of the Allied Rapid Reaction Corps, that’s the British-led NATO high-readiness force, which brings in nineteen other allies. The bottom line is that these forces, together with a number of smaller units offered by different allies, amount to a useful contribution. We’ll still need to underpin them and it’s a hotchpotch of forces that have rarely worked together, let alone fought together, but we can’t complain that our allies have not tried to deliver. And the fact that Europe is united over this is going to be very important for the political endgame.”

The President nodded. “And what about the Russians. Have they thinned out in Kaliningrad?”

McCann nodded. “Satellite images indicate they’re maintaining strong defenses along the Polish-Kaliningrad border and, as expected, the Iskander nuclear batteries are well defended by both ground and air defense. So no change there. However, the good news is that these formations are very localized. They’ve had to thin right out on the Lithuanian border in order to reinforce their troops in the Baltic states and they’ve stripped out their garrisons and equipment inside the country.”

“Does that present us with an opportunity? I’m thinking of that idea I heard about a few weeks ago, of snatching Kaliningrad and forcing the Russians to relinquish the Baltics to get it back.”

McCann looked back at his President. His blue eyes, usually alight with the sparkle of humor, were somber. “Ma’am, we’ve looked at the proposition in detail in line with the direction the National Security Advisor passed on.” He nodded at Bear’s boss, Abe McWhite. “The reality is that, although the Russians have thinned out in Kaliningrad, they’ve still got a significant force in place. If we were to attack conventionally, it would almost certainly result in a long and bloody battle with the Russians defending to the last man. We’ve concluded that the best way to succeed is to play the Russians at their own game.”

“OK—and how do you intend to do that?” questioned Dillon.

McCann stepped forward and took the laser pointer from the briefer. Here was a man who understood that it was the commander’s responsibility to have the big idea and for the staff to implement it. Not for him a series of proposals created and driven by his staff, with him in the role of team manager. Unsurprisingly, thought Bear, his team respected and liked him for his no-nonsense, hands-on approach.

“I’ve talked through the detail with Admiral Howard, the SACEUR and his Brit number two, and we’re agreed on the way ahead. Effectively, we’re going to mount a massive deception by making the Russians think we’re planning to invade the Baltic states in a huge envelopment operation. Because, after all, we’ve now got the manpower and equipment to do it and that’s what we reckon the Russians would do in our place.”

The President nodded for him to continue, evidently fascinated to discover what the military had come up with.

“Ma’am, we intend to concentrate our conventional ground divisions in this area close to the Polish–Lithuanian border.” He pointed on the map to the town of Suwalki, in northeastern Poland.

“Meanwhile, 6th Fleet will screen off the Russian’s Baltic fleet in Baltiysk, their naval base in Kaliningrad. That will allow 2nd Marine Expeditionary Force to sail east toward the coast of Estonia. The aim is to make the Russians think we want to mount an amphibious landing here on the coast of the Gulf of Riga, south of Pärnu…” McCann pointed to the Estonian coast. “It’s the obvious place to land because of the long sandy beaches.”

Dillon nodded thoughtfully. “This looks pretty conventional to me. So, where’s the clever stuff?”

Bear smiled inwardly. Dillon was already getting the measure of her senior military advisers.

McCann grinned. “With respect, Madam President, I haven’t got to that yet.” He pointed way to the south now, at Kaliningrad. “While we’re massing force off the coast of Estonia and on the border with Lithuania, we’ll mount the real operation… To secure and disrupt the nuclear-armed Iskander missiles in Kaliningrad.”

At the mention of the word “nuclear,” Bear noted President Dillon’s eyes narrow and her face become expressionless. Like any sane person, she was clearly terrified of being responsible for the unleashing of even one nuclear weapon in heavily populated Europe.

McCann’s voice was equally neutral now, as he pressed on before Dillon could interrupt him again. “We know for a fact that the launch of tactical nuclear missiles like Iskander depends on release authority from the President, Defense Minister and Chief of the General Staff through their ‘Cheget’ nuclear briefcases—pretty much identical to any black, slimline attaché case, very like your own.” He nodded to the case on the desk. “On the face of it, and in theory, all three have to agree and all three have their own suitcase,” explained McCann.

“But why are we only going after the tactical Iskanders?” Dillon asked.

“Can I stop you right there, ma’am.” McCann held his hand up, much to Bear’s relief. He had been getting worried, too, that all this talk of different missile types—tactical versus strategic—was confusing the civilians in the room, including the President.

“Modern nuclear weapons are so powerful that it is almost academic whether a missile is deemed tactical or strategic if even one is launched. The consequences for Europe, the world, would be entirely catastrophic. If you aren’t killed in the immediate blast, then fall-out will get you because, once one is launched, it is almost inevitable that the other side will respond with theirs… The consequence: MAD—Mutually Assured Destruction.”

The President nodded for him to continue.

“Iskander… or our Tomahawks for that matter, are tactical in that they can be moved around easily. The Iskanders in Kaliningrad are mounted on vehicles. You’ll have seen shots of them driving past the saluting stand at their May Day Parade in Moscow. They are smaller and have a much shorter range than an ICBM, but as I said, it is pretty academic once they start flying. They can carry a normal warhead or a nuclear one—again like our Tomahawks. And, like our Tomahawks, they are extremely accurate and difficult to knock down. But the key thing to remember is that even the smallest one of these is many, many times more powerful than the ones we dropped on Hiroshima or Nagasaki. Just imagine that mushroom cloud, magnified many times over, exploding over the cities of Western Europe.”

McCann looked around him and, although Bear knew the horrendous statistics, he found himself almost unable to breathe with the magnitude of what was being described.

Satisfied that he had made his message clear, McCann continued, “Now, the point for us here today is that the Russians moved these nuclear Iskanders to Kaliningrad to threaten NATO and destabilize the Baltics. Which they have certainly succeeded in doing. But that also means that, unlike their nuclear missile subs, which are hidden at sea, or their ICBMs, which are dug in far behind their borders where we cannot get to them, we could get at these. It is the fact that they are mobile that has made them potentially vulnerable to seizure. If we can first take down their command systems and stop them being launched. Which brings us back to Cheget…”

“So, how do they talk to each other?” asked Dillon, evidently guessing where this might be leading.

“By a number of means. The basis of the system is a two-way communications system called Signal A, with a sub-system known as V’yuga, all backed up by an emergency system: Perimetr. Signal A has a high degree of redundancy—that means back-up systems, in case the primary system fails—and is kept combat ready at all times. We know it is very reliable with several communications tracks, each with a different communications channel: radio, cable, satellite, tropospheric. V’yuga adds yet more backup with HF, VHF and a satellite link.”

“Sounds like they’ve thought things through,” commented Dillon.

“You’re dead right, ma’am. These guys know what they’re doing. On top of which, Signal A and V’yuga are interfaced electronically and algorithmically, which again ensures a high degree of security for all the communications channels. And as if that’s not enough, Perimetr—the back-up system—can transmit an order from the General Staff to the missile launchers direct, thus bypassing all intermediate command posts.”

McCann paused and the President gestured for him to continue.

“But there’s more to it than that. Despite the President and the Defense Minister having their own suitcase for command and control, actual physical control of the unlock and launch authorization codes resides with the military. In fact, the General Staff has direct access to these codes and can initiate a missile launch with or without permission of the political authorities.”

“So, if we captured the launch sites and the command posts, would we be able to take control of the missiles?”

“The million-dollar question, ma’am. We believe we can take control, but I will explain it at the end, so please bear with me. First though, while the Russians are focused on our main forces approaching the Baltics, 82nd Airborne will sneak in and secure the Kaliningrad launch sites. Meanwhile, our Special Forces will capture the command bunker from which all the sites are controlled. Once we’ve got them secured, we’ll redirect the missiles at the Russians. They’ll be bound to be threatening us once they realize what we’ve done, but we’ll be able to threaten them back. And with their own missiles. I can’t imagine the Russian people will exactly appreciate that scenario, especially once it’s all over social media, which we will ensure it is the moment it happens.”

Dillon leaned back and as she thought through the consequences and how it would work out politically, she began to smile. “If the President became a laughing stock after what the Latvians did to him in the forest, how much greater a humiliation this would be…”

Then her face hardened again. “But how many launch sites are there? How many missiles? And what do we have to put on the ground to grab them?”

McCann was ready for these questions. “We believe the Russians have got one hundred nuclear-armed Iskander missiles. Next slide please.” On the screen a high-resolution image of Kaliningrad appeared. “They’re on mobile launchers, but deployed at three protected launch sites.” And again, he directed his laser pointer at the screen. “Here, at Pravdinsk, Yuzhnyy and Ozërsk—with all the sites controlled from the command set-up at Pravdinksk—that’s here, in the center. As for numbers of our people. We’ll need to insert Special Forces, specially trained to adjust the missiles electronically, but also to act as pathfinders for the main force. They’ll be followed by an air assault force at each launch site to break in and secure the missiles.”

“How will you stop the Russians counter-attacking?” quizzed the President.

“Initially by the men on the ground—it takes time to plan and execute a major counter-attack—and then by holding them to ransom with their own missiles. But if it looks as if they’re not going to listen to reason, the ARRC will be ready with three divisions to punch in to Kaliningrad to secure and protect the sites. But the bottom line is this… Once we have the missiles and the launch codes, that’s when you politicians take over and tell the Russians to, first, back off or else and, second, get out of the Baltic states if they want Kaliningrad and their missiles back. And we believe they will have little choice but to comply.”

“That makes sense,” said Dillon.

“But we need one other key ingredient for this plan to work.”

“What’s that?” Dillon demanded.

“We’ll need to disrupt Russian command and control, both nuclear and conventional, for two reasons. First, we’ll need to suppress what is probably the most effective integrated air-defense system anywhere in the world. Second, we have to stop them using the missiles against us as we go in to grab them. The Kremlin has made it very clear that if there’s any threat against Russian territory, they’ll go nuclear. And Kaliningrad, as I’ve said, is undoubtedly homeland. Don’t forget either, they’ve told us outright that the Baltics now count as homeland as well. The only way this works is if they don’t see us coming. If they do, then the missiles could be flying.”

Dillon frowned. “So the risk is that they’ll target 6th Fleet and 2nd MEF at sea and the divisions forming up under the ARRC in northeast Poland? Particularly if they think we’re launching an invasion of Estonia and Lithuania?”

“Correct, ma’am,” replied McCann. “That’s why we have to disrupt those multiple nuclear communications channels I spoke about earlier: Signal A, V’yuga and Perimetr.”

“I get it,” said Dillon. “Disrupt his command systems, seize his command posts and missile launch sites, turn the missiles back on them, and then invite them to come and have a chat. From a position of genuine strength.”

McCann agreed. “That’s what we figured, ma’am. Then all you’ve got to do is suggest he extracts from the Baltics and he can have Kaliningrad and his missiles back… without working warheads, I’d suggest, but I’ll leave that to you. Meanwhile, we’ve got 2nd MEF and the ARRC with its three divisions ready to move into the Baltic states if the Russians show any reluctance to get out.” He paused. “But we’re still working on the cyber operation against the Russian communications channels.”

“Have NSA got an answer to that?” asked the President.

“Not yet, ma’am… but we’re hearing that the Brits might have. They’ve got a team in Kaliningrad who have been feeding us the latest intel on those rocket sites. And because they and their Forest Brother mates have been doing such a good job of it, we’ve kept Special Forces out of Kaliningrad altogether. All part of the deception plan.”

Bear saw the President look confused, as did McCann, because he continued his explanation.

“If we send Special Forces into Kaliningrad now and that is detected, let alone they get caught, then the Russians are going to smell a very large rat and ramp up their defenses. And it will be game over. So, for now, it’s no special ops until it becomes essential, nor any NATO forces on the Kaliningrad border. CIA tell us that their Russian sources are convinced we wouldn’t dare touch Russian soil. Which is why they are still thinning out their home garrisons and are using them to try and knock out the opposition in the Baltics. But this plan only works as long as this Brit keeps sending us high quality intel. If the team leader can do that and if we can drop our boys in and snatch the missiles without any being fired, well… the rest will be a slam dunk, ma’am.”

“I like the sound of this soldier, General McCann. Tell me more about him. What’s his name?”

1600 hours, Tuesday, July 6, 2017

“IN CONCLUSION, THE force generation process for this operation has been relatively successful and I would like to pass on my thanks to all nations for the excellent cooperation SHAPE has had from your Chiefs of Defense and Ministries of Defense. Secretary General, that concludes my briefing.”

And with that, General Sir David McKinlay closed his brief and sat back in his chair. By no means every formation and unit in the Combined Joint Statement of Requirement, or CJSOR in NATO jargon, had been provided. In particular, it was deeply regrettable that his own nation had faced such difficulties in putting together a force. Whether it was lack of Navy escorts and manpower or the Army’s dependence on reserves to fill key gaps, the UK’s defense capability was a shadow of what it once had been. Nevertheless, a number of critical deficiencies had been filled by the Americans, so he was able to brief the NAC that, in his professional military judgment, the force would be able to do the job it was being asked to take on.

Not only that, such had been the response from some nations that McKinlay had been called upon to exercise the wisdom of Solomon to avoid upsetting countries keen to offer what they could to the force being assembled to eject Russia from the Baltic states. He had even been happy to include contributions from non-NATO members, with Sweden, Finland, Australia and New Zealand figuring significantly. That said, there were other nations—the usual suspects—conspicuous for their lack of contribution and enthusiasm. That was a matter for another day, though.

“Thank you, DSACEUR,” said Secretary General Kostilek. “Are there any more questions?” He paused momentarily, and then continued, “I see there are none. SACEUR, the floor is yours.”

Admiral Max Howard got straight to the point. “Secretary General, ladies and gentlemen. I want to add my thanks and congratulations to DSACEUR’s. This has been a fine effort from the Alliance in generating the force levels we need for this operation. That’s the good news… but there’s bad news, too. It’s one thing to pull together the force, but it’s quite another to achieve victory. Sure, in line with your authority, we’ve been planning the detail of this very complex operation for the past five weeks. The Military Committee has been given a Top Secret briefing on the plan at SHAPE and your MILREPs—your Military Representatives—will have briefed you in detail. So you all know what is planned.”

He looked around the Council table at the twenty-eight ambassadors; most very capable diplomats but understandably, with very little comprehension of the complexities and mechanics of a military operation, particularly an operation on the scale of this one. He knew most of them personally and liked many of them as individuals. But he detected a certain smugness in the room; the knowledge that they were in the inner circle. They knew the plan and had the satisfaction of knowing that they were the ones who had given SACEUR authority to proceed. It was time to shake that self-satisfaction.

McKinlay knew that Admiral Howard had already cleared his line with the Secretary General and the Chairman of the Military Committee, General Knud Vahr, so he was guaranteed support from those two, as well as the American and British ambassadors, who both knew what was about to happen.

“You will not like what I am going to say,” said Howard. “But I have to. The bottom line is this. If the NAC continues to insist on retaining the right to give me the green light for each stage of what I need to do as your Supreme Commander, then I guarantee that NATO will fail in this endeavor. And if we fail to eject the Russians from the Baltic states, having assembled this impressive force, then the Alliance will have no future. And Europe will have no future. And Russia will have won. I don’t need to once again spell out the political or military consequences of that horror scenario…”

McKinlay heard a perceptible intake of breath from around the table.

The German ambassador scowled and raised his hand.

Howard ignored the interruption and continued. “If I had been sitting here thirty-five years ago, as your SACEUR, during the Cold War, I would have had the authority to deploy forces when I wanted if faced with Warsaw Pact aggression. I would not have had to turn to the NAC for the green light at each step on the way. Let me give you an example. My predecessors as SACEUR were able to order the deployment of the ACE, Allied Command Europe, Mobile Force—a multinational immediate response force—to meet any of its contingency plans once NATO’s activation warning order ACTWARN had been declared. There was no requirement to go back to the NAC. As a result, NATO was able to make decisions with real agility and effectiveness.”

McKinlay could see the German ambassador muttering to himself and scribbling furiously.

“Contrast that with NATO’s recent failure to deploy the Very High Readiness Joint Task Force, the successor to the ACE Mobile Force, to the Baltic states quickly enough to deter the Russians from invading. Had I been able to do that without the authority of the NAC, I believe we would not be sitting here today, with Russia occupying three NATO countries. The irony is that many of the units were ready to deploy, but I had no authority to send them.”

Now the French and German ambassadors were whispering to each other.

Kostilek banged the table with his gavel. “Please be good enough to let SACEUR finish.”

Howard continued, “The NAC’s insistence on clearing in advance any plan by the NATO Military Authorities is a product of an era that has now passed. I concede that it was politically expedient in Afghanistan, given the very different role of NATO out there. But I have to tell you… this creeping reduction in SACEUR’s authority will guarantee military failure if it continues. You may think you are the only ones to have been briefed on my top secret plan. But I also have to tell you, that anything you are briefed upon will be on the President’s desk in Moscow within hours.”

McKinlay looked around the table. Some faces were angry, others resigned, others curious as to where this was going. SACEUR had just had the bad manners to point to the ever-present elephant in the NATO room, something everyone present knew, but no one ever referred to, at least in public: the fact that the information given to the NAC had a nasty habit of leaking straight back to Moscow. Many of the ambassadors were clearly unhappy at the insinuation and some were already demanding to speak.

Admiral Howard ignored the hubbub.

“Secretary General, it is right that the NAC should set the political end-state and I am quite clear what you want me to achieve. However, I have to be able to plan and execute the military strategy to achieve that without having to clear it every step of the way with the NAC… And without fearing for operational security. I therefore request the NAC give me full authority to proceed from here on to the end of this crisis without having to clear the details of the campaign with you. We can, of course, revisit this matter when Russia has been expelled from the Baltics.”

And now the muttering around the table was reaching a crescendo.

Kostilek banged his gavel again and called for order. “My dear colleagues, I fully understand your concerns regarding this issue. I propose that we ask SACEUR and DSACEUR to step outside while we discuss it in closed, ambassador-only, session. The Chairman of the Military Committee, as the NAC’s official military adviser, will of course remain.”

And with that, Howard nodded to McKinlay and the two men left the council chamber to be met by Captain Dan Rodowicz, the tall ex-professional basketball player who had joined up after 9/11 and was now part of SACEUR’s forward liaison team in NATO HQ. “Hi, Sirs. I suggest we head upstairs to the office and we’ll fix you a coffee and something to eat.”

Two hours later, the call came through to the office requesting Howard and McKinlay to return to the chamber. As they entered, the room went quiet.

Kostilek welcomed them back. “SACEUR, thank you for your patience. We have debated this issue in detail and I am pleased to say that, after considerable discussion, we have a consensus. We ask that you submit the usual daily update to the NAC and, in particular, that you keep the NAC appraised of any issues likely to have an impact at the grand strategic level. Furthermore, the NAC has agreed that, as Secretary General of NATO, you are to brief me in detail on your plan as it proceeds. Meanwhile, you have the green light to prosecute operations as you see fit.”

1030 hours, Friday, July 7, 2017

CHELTENHAM, THE GENTEEL, quintessentially English spa town that sits at the base of the limestone escarpment marking the western edge of the Cotswold Hills, is dominated in the first two weeks of July by the music festival; this year, according to the Daily Telegraph, a “shrewd mix of tradition and novelty, guaranteeing some very special musical experiences.”

This was utterly lost on Trevor Walker, the Prime Minister’s Director of Communications, as he was driven through the suburbs of Cheltenham to meet Prime Minister Oliver Little. Not only was Walker totally uninterested in music, but with the country now effectively at war with Russia and a new Prime Minister in Number 10 Downing Street, he was preoccupied with ensuring his new boss’s power base in the parliamentary party was secure.

The Toyota Hybrid Prius from the Whitehall car pool drew up at the gate of the Government Communications Headquarters and, after security checks, Walker was let in to the 176-acre site, dominated in the center by the concentric-ringed, steel, aluminum and stone “Doughnut,” the largest building constructed for intelligence purposes outside the USA. Staffed by 5,500 employees, the purpose of GCHQ is to provide signals intelligence to the British government, its various intelligence services and its armed forces. Soon he was at the helipad with the GCHQ Director, Ian Berry; breezy, early forties and fit, looking more like a rugby-playing, public-school housemaster than the head of one of the world’s most pre-eminent spy agencies.

But thankfully, before he found himself having to make small talk about radios or the internet, or whatever these boffins liked to discuss, the clatter and then the roar of the red-and-white liveried AgustaWestland helicopter of 32 Squadron RAF obliterated any chance of a conversation as it landed. Moments later the Prime Minister was out and being buffeted by the fierce downdraught before being whisked away from the landing pad and into the principal conference room of the Doughnut.

Walker walked in behind his boss to see, as well as the GCHQ team brought together to brief the PM, the shaven-headed Chief of the Defense Staff, General Jock Kydd. He was dressed in his habitual, faded jungle-green combats without rank badges, sleeves rolled up high to reveal large, hairy biceps. As ever, Walker found he was unsure whether he was impressed or frightened by the man. Impressed because Kydd had immediately made things happen, unlike his Machiavellian predecessor. And frightened, not only because of the feral nature of the man, but also because he had an uneasy feeling that, if he said the wrong thing, the general would happily rip his head off.

“Prime Minister.” Infuriatingly, Kydd did not wait to be spoken to, but launched straight in. “This is Dave McKinlay, the Deputy Supreme Allied Commander Europe. He’s just flown in from NATO’s strategic headquarters in Belgium for this briefing.” Walker noted a bulky, strong-looking, gray-haired general who, in his Royal Marines uniform and badges of rank, looked like another conventional soldier. However, a second glance revealed a steely look and the broken nose of a former rugby player and he realized that, although very different, the two generals were probably very much out of the same lethal mold.

“It’s good to meet you, General,” said Little, shaking his hand. “Where does NATO stand on this?”

“I’m here, Prime Minister, because nobody else, and that includes the Americans, can do what GCHQ have got planned and we fully support that plan. My role is to ensure the closest possible cooperation between what GCHQ can do and the NATO strategy. So, I’m here to listen in and take the plan back to SACEUR.”

“We really appreciate you finding time to visit us, Prime Minister,” said Berry, taking back control. “We’ve got a plan which I think you’ll find of interest. I’ve brought together the team who’ve been working this particular issue, so I’m going to leave it to them to tell you what they’ve achieved.”

“I hear you’ve found a way into Russia’s nuclear command and control system,” said Little, imposing his authority in turn. “If that’s so, it’s a potential war winner. But please continue.”

“Certainly, Prime Minister,” answered Berry. “But without going into technical detail. Not because we think you won’t understand it. More important, it’s not something you need to know, so it’s better left unsaid.”

“Look here, Ian,” said Little, “I only managed to scrape a Physics with Chemistry ‘O’ Level. There’s no chance of me letting any technical cats out of the bag!”

“Be that as it may, Prime Minister, but what I’m saying is, you may not want to know…” As he said this, Berry was looking hard at Walker, his meaning clear: he was not revealing any secrets to the Prime Minister’s PR man, regardless of his top level of clearance.

The Prime Minister also looked at him, but instead of leaping to his defense as his predecessor would have done, he waved a hand as if to push the issue aside. “Point taken. Continue.”

“Thank you, Prime Minister. In essence what we’ve done is think through the problem as if we were terrorists hacking a nuclear command and control network. I’m going to leave it to Nicola Allenby, the team leader, to talk you through it. She’s just back from PJHQ, where they are setting up this attack… If you authorize us to instigate it, that is.”

Berry indicated the four individuals sitting at the conference table opposite the two generals. Walker, sitting at the back and keen now to hide his resentment at the obvious put-down, took in the group, all in their late twenties. Two of the three men had half-grown beards, spiky hair and were earringed and T-shirted: typical geeks. The third was bespectacled, wearing a tweed jacket and looked like a 1950s physics student. Allenby, the one woman, looked attractively self-confident, especially given her age and considering her audience. In fact, she looked positively sporty; more a young, high-flying corporate financier than someone who was planning an attack on Russia’s nuclear systems.

Allenby was explaining how nuclear command and control covered everything required to maintain a nuclear weapons capability: personnel, equipment, facilities, organizations, procedures as well as the chain of command. “Given the need for mobility, multiple launch platforms and redundancy—a back-up system in case the primary system fails—the Russian system is inherently vulnerable,” she went on in her clipped, precise tones, a legacy of what could only be an expensive education. “We looked at the issue and decided we wanted two results. First, we looked at how we might take down the entire Russian General Staff communications system.”

Kydd, sitting opposite her, growled. “Now you’re talking my fucking language…”

Allenby looked him in the eye. “General, there’s no need for that in here. Thank you.”

Kydd squirmed and Walker smirked to himself as he watched the soldier’s evident discomfort. Great to see the cocky bastard put down, he thought to himself. This girl’s sussed him out and put him firmly in his place. That’s more than the PM’s managed so far. He caught her eye and gave her an encouraging nod.

Allenby ignored him and continued, “But, more specifically, we also wanted to get inside the nuclear command and control system and take control of that… I’ll come back to that in a moment.”

“So, what can you do about the Russian General Staff command and control system?” The Prime Minister was intrigued but also, Walker knew, on a very tight timetable.

“Our tactic was no different from hackers anywhere looking to achieve what’s known in the trade as Distributed Denial of Service—DDoS. That involves taking control of multiple computers by installing a worm these guys invented.” Allenby gestured to the three young men on either side of her. “Once Rasputin, that’s the name we’ve given our particular worm, is inserted into one computer in a botnet—that’s what we call multiple computers linked together under illicit control—it spreads like wildfire. As it spreads, the computers in the network come together to shut down websites or portions of the network by flooding the servers with data requests. This massive flow of data requests causes buffer overflow, jams the servers and makes them unusable.”

“So, effectively what you are doing is using the computers in the network to block the network,” said Little slowly, but looking somewhat confused; as well he might, thought Walker.

“Exactly, Prime Minister,” replied Allenby crisply. “But the really clever thing about Rasputin is that we can activate it when we want to. Most worms go into action as soon as they enter the system. But Rasputin sits in their system, dormant, until we want it to create chaos.”

“OK… So how do you get into the network in the first place?”

“Good question, Prime Minister,” GCHQ Director Berry intervened. “Initially we tried to mount an operation with the CIA and MI6 to break into the servers of Russia’s National Defense Control Center, the NDCC, while it was being built. However, to give them credit—and the Russians are seriously good at this sort of thing—we failed. One reason is that their servers are Russian-made, which maximizes their resistance to our offensive cyber capabilities. That by the way, Prime Minister, is another conversation for another day, about our own foreign-built servers… but I digress… Anyway, any defense is only as good as its weakest links. And Nicola here found a way in.” He smiled like a magician producing a rabbit from a hat, before pointing back to Allenby and so inviting her to explain.

“You’ll appreciate, Prime Minister, that any computer connected to the internet is susceptible to infiltration and takeover. We had to find a way to access a closed network like the one used by the Russian General Staff. So we looked for an individual with access to the closed network into whose open-network computer we might be able to install a virus.”

“And… ?”

“PJHQ hosted a visit a few years ago from a group of Russians who were setting up the NDCC, before Crimea—when relations were still OK. Well, naturally, my predecessor took advantage of it and laid the ground work. The team monitored the computer usage of a number of the colonels when they were back in their hotel and managed to get IP addresses and other details. Roll the clock forward and one of those colonels is now a general in the NDCC, so we continued to monitor his usage and hacked into his computer with the details recorded from that time. We had clocked that he was a regular subscriber to a couple of dodgy websites and we also knew that he was in the habit of taking work home and transferring work from his laptop onto his office computer.

“The next step was to infect the websites he was downloading with Rasputin. So the next time he logged into one of his favorite porn sites, his computer was infected. Then he made the mistake of transferring a military presentation he’d written at home on his laptop onto the desk top in his office at the NDCC. His desk top is on the military net and that was that—we’d penetrated the system.”

The Prime Minister looked impressed. “Ingenious… and very, very far-sighted,” he commented.

“That’s the nature of our work, Prime Minister.” Berry once again took over. “Thanks to Nicola and the team we can take down the Russian General Staff network on call. However, we must assume they’ll have some form of reversionary mode and be able to get back up and running again very quickly. How quickly we have no idea. So, to get the best result for the operational boys, we’ll have to initiate the Rasputin attack with maximum precision. And that means the closest possible coordination with the operational plan. Which is why the military team are here today.”

“Impressive,” said Little. “But doesn’t that still leave the nuclear command and control?”

“Yes, Prime Minister, but we can fix that.” Then Berry explained how the Russian system, on the face of it, depended on authority for launch from the President, who was always accompanied by an aide who carried the nuclear launch briefcase. “Cheget is connected to Kavkaz, the senior government officials’ communication system. That is connected to Kazbek, the broader nuclear command and control communication system. But, and this is the really good bit, it’s possible for more junior people to intervene in the system.”

“Go on,” said Little, “I think I’m still with you.”

“The Russians have a back-up system called Perimetr—literally ‘dead hand’—which is designed to launch an attack in the event of a massive strike that has decapitated the Russian leadership. It’s a sort of last-ditch revenge strike, which would send us all to oblivion: a modern-day version of Doctor Strangelove.”

“You’re having me on,” the Prime Minister exclaimed. “Life imitating art in the most ghastly way…”

“Exactly, Prime Minister, and I wish I was having you on. But what matters for today is that, by using Rasputin, we can now break into the operating system and insert a malicious code with a Trojan Horse, one that will not only give us access to Perimetr, but allow us to control it. So instead of Perimetr thinking that Russia’s command and control has been destroyed and that it must now nuke the West, Rasputin will fool it into surrendering control to us. We will then have electronic control of the Iskander missiles in Kaliningrad. But, and again, for how long we just don’t know.”

“But long enough to create… chaos?”

“We believe so.”

The Prime Minister leaned back. “Pure genius,” he breathed. “We hold the Russians to ransom with their own missiles.”

“Exactly, Prime Minister,” Berry said.

“And this is where Dave comes in, Prime Minister,” Kydd interjected. “This will be a NATO operation although, of course, the US will be lead nation. Rasputin is the key to success so, if this is to work, it’ll be very much down to the skill and ingenuity of GCHQ. And Dave is the key to linking Rasputin with the NATO plan. However, we shouldn’t forget that, given the size of force we can offer these days, the US consider us as a junior partner alongside other European nations. It’s just lucky that DSACEUR is still a UK post, but we can’t take even that for granted indefinitely.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Little, turning to McKinlay. “UK has always been a lead nation in NATO and punched well above its weight.”

Walker watched as McKinlay thought for a moment, as if pondering whether to accept the Prime Minister’s line or to push back. Then he saw the Royal Marine’s jaw set and his eyes narrow. He looked the Prime Minister directly in the eye and spoke.

“I’ve told the MOD many times that those days are over, Prime Minister. UK may think like that, but none of the other nations think that of UK. Sure, there’s still a lot of respect for the quality of the people in the British Armed Forces, but the reality is that UK influence in NATO has diminished significantly, and that is entirely down to the constant reductions in defense capability of the last decade or so. And I say that despite the big equipment promises of the 2015 Defense Review. As far as our NATO allies are concerned, those were promises of jam tomorrow and not combat effectiveness today.”

“But…” Little started to protest, but having glanced at Kydd who was nodding in agreement with McKinlay’s dire assessment, he instead gestured at him to continue.

“Thank you, Prime Minister… What is more, UK’s position has been damaged by its reluctance to get involved in NATO operations and its willingness to let other nations carry the burden. Before all this kicked off, the Germans and Italians were heading the league table in terms of European contributors to operations in places like the Balkans and the NATO mission in Afghanistan. On top of that, no one can understand why a maritime nation like the UK scrapped its maritime patrol aircraft.” He paused. “And with the sinking of the Queen Elizabeth, that particular chicken came home to roost… Catastrophically.”

Walker was not surprised that Little was bristling at this criticism. “Well, General,” he said sarcastically, “you’re a British officer, you’d better get out and tell NATO that we are stepping up to the mark again, especially with Rasputin.”

“I’m sorry, Prime Minister,” replied McKinlay quietly. “Rasputin has to stay on the closest possible hold. Only SACEUR needs to know, together with his key Ops general in SHAPE, also an American. But it must go no further, even if it works out perfectly. Not even our Ambassador to NATO, Dame Flora Montrose, can know about it. Rasputin is an offensive cyber operation and NATO has made it very clear that it will only engage in defensive cyber operations. So, Rasputin must be seen only as a UK operation. And more generally, I’m not standing here as a British officer. I may be wearing a British uniform and no one should doubt my loyalty to my country, but my first duty is to NATO. If I were to push a UK line, I’d lose whatever credibility I have and that could only disadvantage the UK in the longer term.”

Then, realizing that he might have overdone it, he added, “But, Prime Minister, it’s not all doom and gloom. What I can say is that the rest of the Alliance, particularly the Americans, are very aware that there has been a change of direction.”

Walker could see that the Prime Minister had had enough of this criticism and was about to snap back, but Kydd intervened. “I’m afraid to tell you Dave’s right, Prime Minister. I’m getting exactly this from my US contacts, too. There’s always the danger of listening to our own propaganda and it’s no bad thing to have someone who’s prepared to tell us how we’re seen by others. Which you now have…”

The Prime Minister looked slowly from Kydd to McKinlay and back again. Walker saw the pugnacious look in Little’s eye and waited for the eruption, but none came. Instead, the Prime Minister grinned disarmingly at Kydd. “I knew what I was taking on when I appointed you, CDS. But I didn’t expect there to be two of you…”

And now he also grinned at McKinlay. “OK, I take the point. I don’t like what you say, but I’m glad we’ve still got some generals who are prepared to tell it as it is.” Then he changed the subject. “Could the Americans set up something like Rasputin?”

“Not without our help,” said Berry.

“Good,” said Little with a nod. “Trevor, please set up a call to President Dillon just as soon as I’m back in Number Ten.”

1245 hours, Friday, July 7, 2017

SOON AFTER THE meeting had concluded, the Prime Minister left, accompanied by Walker. McKinlay was escorted back to the car that was to take him to the small airport at Staverton, near Gloucester, to catch the RAF HS-125 executive jet back to Belgium. He was walking down the circular walkway that runs through the building, known to all as “The Street,” when he saw Nicola Allenby hastening to join him.

“General, I need to talk. Quietly please. If you have a moment, that is…”

Allenby, who’d impressed McKinlay by her poise, self-confidence and deep knowledge of her subject, looked concerned.

“Of course. How are we for time, Simon?” he asked his British Army Military Assistant.

“The plane’s not going without you, General… take as long as you like. I suggest we head out to the garden. There’s plenty of space and we’ll be able to find somewhere quiet.”

Their GCHQ escort, a middle-aged lady from Protocol, took them into the open-air garden courtyard situated in the middle of the Doughnut and they sat at a bench close to the memorial to the five GCHQ staff killed on active service in Afghanistan: two Cotswold Stone circles, with the bronze heads of a young woman and a helmeted soldier in profile, facing each other.

“You did well back there,” said McKinlay bluntly, once the escort was out of earshot. “I don’t mean just the op you’ve set up… but you weren’t fazed by that little weasel with the PM—his Director of Communications, Walker… Odious man. Always looking to get something on you that he can trade later.”

Allenby brushed off the compliment with what seemed to McKinlay her trademark briskness, but he wondered as he observed her, was it really shyness?

“Thank you, General, but it happens all the time with those types.”

He nodded at her to continue.

“Look, I know you’re heading back to SHAPE, but there’s something you should know that I can’t pass on via the usual channels… Which is why I wanted to grab you before you left.”

McKinlay was intrigued. “I’m listening.”

“It’s about the team of Mercians we’ve got in Latvia—at least they started in Latvia. As you’ll know, they’ve now infiltrated into Kaliningrad from Lithuania. They’ve just completed a close target recce on the nuclear command and control bunker at Pravdinsk, in order to prepare the way for US Special Forces to seize it once we’ve activated Rasputin and established the electronic control I briefed the PM about.”

“OK,” said McKinlay.

“There are two issues of concern you should know about. First, we’ve picked up from the Russian nets that they’ve almost certainly identified the team. Not only that, but the Russians know they were responsible for humiliating the President with the helicopter shoot down at Ligatne. And second, we’ve picked up that the President has personally ordered the Spetsnaz to capture Tom Morland, the Mercian team commander. They want to make a spectacle of him. Before disposing of him, no doubt.”

“How did they manage that?” asked McKinlay.

“By the signature of the data transmissions. Without going into the technicalities, the team signaler has a particular way of putting together the message. He’s good, but he’s not SF, so he hasn’t been trained in the techniques to avoid detection. We’ve picked up on it, so we’re assuming the Russians have, too. They’re brilliant at this sort of thing. We’re now assuming that the Russians picked them up first in Latvia, which would explain how they were able to zero in on the team and then launch that camp attack, which only just failed. Since then, although they’ve only transmitted very occasionally since, they’ll have been tracking the guys through Lithuania… and now we believe that the Russians know they’re in Kaliningrad. So, although their last transmission was some distance from Pravdinsk, it has to be a fair bet that the Russians will put two and two together and work out that they’re probably looking at the nuclear command and control facility there.”

McKinlay rubbed his chin ruminatively. “I see… but I can’t say I’m surprised. It was probably only a matter of time before the Russians caught up with them. So, what you’re saying is that by tracking their radio signature, they may have inadvertently led the Russians to Pravdinsk?”

“Well, General, I was thinking more of the team walking into a trap.”

“Yes, I can see that. They’ve done incredibly well and had amazing luck, but luck usually runs out eventually. The secret of survival, not that I am one to talk,” he smiled as he rapped his artificial leg with his knuckles, “is knowing when it is time to say enough. I think you are telling me that it’s time this chap Morland did just that.”

“Yes, General. Exactly. Although the important news for our plan is that we aren’t getting the sense that Moscow think they are doing anything more than looking.”

“Long may that last. Is there any satellite or radio information that shows troops being moved into the area?”

“No, General.”

“So even though they probably suspect that our boys are going to recce Pravdinsk, they aren’t worried. Haven’t reinforced, or anything?”

“No, General.”

“As I guessed. Or we’d have aborted the mission already. Correct?”

Allenby nodded.

“All of which makes sense, if you think about it. They’re only five soldiers. Not even Special Forces. With a few Forest Brothers. I cannot imagine they will worry the Russians unduly. And yes, I do agree with you, it does look as if they will be expected.”

McKinlay looked hard at the girl as he spoke. Important as this information was, she could just as easily have briefed someone more junior. He had a sense that this girl, who had been so impressive and direct in front of the PM only moments before, was not letting everything on. “Is there something you want me to do?” he asked, trying to keep any gruffness out of his voice. He had a plane to catch and a war to plan.

“Well… PJHQ know all this but refuse to warn them.”

“Let me guess,” McKinlay was thinking of a couple of his spook chums and their convoluted way of thinking, “because, if you do warn them and they are captured, then the Russians will torture them and discover what they know, and therefore what we know… and, don’t tell me, you haven’t informed these Mercians what we are planning or their role in it.”

“Exactly, Sir. In case they’re caught.”

“In case they’re caught…” McKinlay mused, thinking through the variables before replying. “Trouble is, and callous as it sounds, I have to agree.”

“But, Sir. It gets worse. They’ve identified a hidden minefield, which would totally stymie the American SOF forcing an entry into the perimeter.”

“Well, I guess there’s only one solution then, if this is going to work,” McKinlay replied. “Morland and his team will have to meet up with the US SOF when they infiltrate and guide them through or around the minefield.”

“Straight into an ambush by the Russian special forces, who we know are tracking them and are probably waiting for them…”

“Quite probably. We’ll just have to hope that Morland has thought through how he approaches the task. He sounds like a capable young officer. Let’s just hope he stays lucky.”

“But…”

“It’s what we soldiers are paid to do when we take the Queen’s Shilling on the day we join—harsh though it may sound.”

He gave her an avuncular smile before pushing himself to his feet. Then he caught himself and remembered his sense of humanity. This girl, little older than his own daughters, was a systems geek. She might come across like the captain of the lacrosse team but, in reality, she played with computers and radios. And now something clever she had set up was probably going to result in men being killed; men she had been communicating with, men whose names she had come to know, men she wanted to warn but was not being allowed to.

Looking at the evident distress on her face, it must have come as a shock to her to discover that there was such a direct and human dimension to her work. He thought again of his own wife and daughters and their accusation that he lacked empathy. GCHQ was going to need the Nicola Allenbys of this world in the dark days that were certain to come and he knew he ought to try to show some concern and understanding.

“I’m genuinely sorry if that came over as heartless, my dear. But there really is nothing you can do to help. You need to focus on the fact that what you have done has helped, is going to save countless lives. It’s not your fault he’s going back into danger and you cannot warn him.”

1900 hours, Friday, July 7, 2017

DEEP IN THE dense forest, hidden in the carefully concealed patrol base, Morland, Krauja and Arvydas Lukša, the Lithuanian Forest Brother who had taken over responsibility for looking after the Mercian team, went through the detail once again of what they had learned from their recent reconnaissance of the Pravdinsk Iskander missile site. They were looking for any potential gaps in the plan for the next phase of the operation. Close by, Sergeant Danny Wild provided immediate protection, while around them the Lithuanians and Mercians cleaned weapons, rested or prepared their kit for that night’s operation. On the edge of a clearing the trail bikes, their means of transport up until now, stood hidden under camouflage nets.

Morland kept his voice low as he summarized what they knew. “We’ve got a pretty firm fix on the way the site’s laid out: barbed-wire perimeter fence, arc lights and sentry towers—together with the least exposed approaches. Also, it seems that the guards tend to follow the same pattern in their patrolling. In and out of the same gate in the compound.”

Krauja nodded. “And we know they always use the same track through that minefield along the northern perimeter too. I couldn’t spot whether it was marked or not, but at least we know it’s there. Thank God for that wretched deer blowing its leg off after straying into it. If we hadn’t been watching the perimeter fence when it did, we’d have never have known the minefield existed.”

“I only wish it had been us who got the meat instead of the Russians,” grumbled Captain Lukša, the broad-shouldered, former member of the Lithuanian national wrestling team, now of the Lithuanian Special Operations Forces. “We could all do with a hot meal.”

“Roger to that,” said Morland with feeling. Ever since they had crossed into Russian-populated Kaliningrad, they had needed to be even more careful and that had meant the cold rations of “hard routine” for fear that fires would give them away. “Now, once again, those patrols. You’re sure the Russians will stick with the timings and routes we’ve logged?”

“You can guarantee that the Russians will be predictable,” Lukša answered with his usual smile. “When I was younger, I made my living from smuggling cigarettes across the border from Lithuania into Kaliningrad. If we had been caught? Well… but we risked it, because we knew where their minefields and standing patrols were situated. Improvisation and initiative isn’t something they teach their soldiers. Don’t get me wrong. The Russians can be brilliant planners, but once they have a plan they stick to it, and woe betide anyone who doesn’t follow that plan. That’s why crossing the border was never a problem. That and knowing every track and hiding place…”

“Thank God for your dodgy past.” Morland grinned at him. “We owe you guys a lot. If you weren’t so brilliant at driving motorbikes down forest tracks in the middle of the night at one hundred kilometers per hour using night vision goggles, and scaring the living daylights out of us Brits, we wouldn’t have even got this far. In fact, I can say this, hand on heart, I never want to get on a bloody motorbike ever again… But now it’s time to get serious. Those American Special Forces guys are depending on us to guide them in to the bunker. This is your backyard, Arvydas. That means we are following you.”

Lukša thought before replying. “This is where it gets tricky. We’ll leave a couple of my guys here with the bikes, ready to extract us fast back across the border to Lithuania once we’ve completed the task. We’ll be able to hide up much better there.” He looked at Krauja and Morland, who both nodded their agreement.

Morland knew the Russians would swamp the area with troops once the Americans arrived and did whatever they were planning to do. That meant the team needed to be as far away as possible before that happened.

“We’ll move out from here on foot at 2200 hours, once it’s properly dark. I’ll go ahead as lead scout. Tom, you follow me with the rest of your team and Marina behind you. Two of my people will bring up the rear. I’ll signal when we’re in the LUP—the lying-up position—and then it’s the usual hard routine for the rest of the night and through tomorrow. We’ll only be five kilometers from the compound and that means no fires or lights or cigarettes, pissing and crapping where we are, no movement, complete silence. We’ll move out after dark tomorrow night to link up with the Americans for their drop. Then we take them forward so they can get eyes on the compound. We’ve recce’d the routes. We all know where we need to be and what we need to do. We just need to keep doing what we’ve been doing to make sure that we remain undetected. No mistakes…” He stopped and looked at Morland. “Happy with that, Tom?”

“Spot on, Arvydas. Exactly what London wants.” Morland looked around the patrol base. Everyone had been briefed and was ready to go. He nodded at Wild, “Time to get something to eat and a bit of rest. It’s going to be a long night.”

Lukša moved over to his soldiers to confirm they all knew what was planned and had no questions, while Wild did the same with the three other Mercians.

Morland reached into his bergen and pulled out a tin of sardines from his Lithuanian ration pack, together with a packet of dry biscuits. He looked at Krauja. “It’s hardly cordon bleu, Marina, but have a bite.”

Krauja pulled a face. “No thanks, Tom, I’ve got some of my own. I wouldn’t want to deprive you. But thanks anyway.”

“If only we could cook something. I’m a dab hand at putting together a classic compo all in stew.”

“A what?” asked Krauja.

“Everything in the pack put together and heated up: baked beans, meat, veg, hard tack biscuits, cheese—with lashings of curry powder and tabasco sauce,” said Morland, with a faraway look in his eye as he thought about hot food.

Krauja smiled. “I hadn’t seen you as a domestic god, Tom. I might just hold you to that… If we ever get out of here, that is.” For a moment her control faltered.

Morland saw that for all her Baltic strength of character, Krauja was frightened. “Don’t you worry, Marina. We’ll make it out.” He gestured at Wild and the three other Mercian soldiers. “Those buggers have been in much worse scrapes. They’re natural-born survivors and so are you!”

For the first time since he had known her, she looked unconvinced.

“I’m being deadly serious here, Marina. I don’t know what the Americans are planning, but I reckon that the Russians in that compound are going to get the shock of their lives tomorrow night. If we keep to the plan, keep quiet, we should be in and out. After that, of course…” As he said it, Morland was all too aware that, while they had been living almost cheek to cheek, they had hardly spoken to one another properly since they came into the forest; the consequence of living and operating tactically and on the run for weeks on end.

He looked around and saw that, for a brief moment, they were alone. “I’ve been wanting to thank you, Marina. I saw how pissed off Jānis Krastiņš was, when he handed us over to Arvydas Lukša and the Lithuanian Forest Brothers. I didn’t understand a word he was saying but, from the look he gave me when he left, I’m guessing you insisted on staying and looking after us.”

“Yes… Well…”

For a moment there was a softness in her eyes when Krauja looked back at him and Morland thought he detected the faintest of blushes beneath the green-and-brown camouflage cream smeared over her cheeks. Then it was if she caught herself before giving him her normal, no-nonsense look.

“When you and I first met in Riga, Juris Bērziņš, my boss, ordered me to stay with you and look after you… whatever happened. He had predicted something like this years ago. He had no doubt about what he was witnessing when he asked you to visit him and he assigned me to be your liaison officer. I told him yes, and I am fulfilling my word to a man I respected. Major Krastiņš’s view was that with Bērziņš dead and Latvia overrun by the Russians, my promise no longer applied. I disagreed. That’s all.”

“Is that so?” said Morland, unwilling to pursue the matter further. She was with them and that was that, and he certainly didn’t want her anywhere else right now. Then another thought struck him. “Please don’t say this to anyone else, Marina, but I’m guessing we are going to get pulled out of here sooner rather than later. Although I have no idea how or when… If we are extracted, I think you should strongly consider coming back to the UK with us. You’ve more than done your bit and, what’s more, you’re much more useful alive and helping our Int people back home than stuck in the forests and being hunted down by the Russians. And something else I’m sure everyone is very aware of but they don’t want to articulate, I think it’s going to get very hairy around here once we complete this mission.”

“Thank you, Tom. I appreciate your concern.” Krauja looked at him gravely. “But I’m Latvian. My country is occupied by Russia. The only way we can fight the invaders is from the forests. My duty is to get back where I’m needed. Besides… the Russians killed my brother.”

From the set look on her face, Morland knew better than to push her. Anyhow, it was time to clean his weapon, prepare his kit for the long patrol back to the compound and get some rest.

Five hours later, long after they had left their patrol base, Morland saw the shadowy outline of Captain Arvydas Lukša, the Lithuanian Forest Brother who was leading, hold up a hand. It was the signal to stop. He repeated the signal to Sergeant Wild behind him and he, in turn, passed the message soundlessly back to the rest of the patrol. He checked his luminous army issue watch: 0255 hrs. Twenty minutes later than planned, but better to take longer and go quieter, than rush and be heard and caught.

The other four Mercians, Krauja and two other Lithuanians automatically spread out to take up a position of all-round defense. When Morland saw they were in position, he swung his daysack from his shoulders and lowered it to the earth. Suppressing the urge to flop down next to it and rest, he moved to each team member in turn, careful not to snap any of the twigs or branches that littered the forest floor, and confirmed with a suppressed whisper that they were now in their lying-up place. This is where they would remain until the following night.

Only when Morland saw the unmistakable silhouette of Corporal Jezza Watson move away from the team to do the first sentry stag did he sit down and consult his map by the faint red light of his torch. He knew they were in exactly the right place, but he double-checked all the same. Now it was time to settle in for what remained of the short summer night. They would stay hidden here all the next day until the scheduled parachute drop of US Special Forces tomorrow night.

He swigged a mouthful from his water bottle, extracted his bivvi bag from his daysack, felt the forest floor to make sure he was not placing it over any stones or protruding roots that would keep him awake and then unrolled it. Next he took off his webbing vest and laid it carefully beside him, ready to pull on at a moment’s notice, and wriggled into his bivvi bag, boots still on. If anything happened out here, this close to the Russians, there would be no time to pull them on and lace them up. It had only been this level of attention to infantry drills by every member of the team that had meant that when the Spetsnaz—and he was convinced that only their Special Forces could have got that close to their camp undetected by the Forest Brothers—had ambushed them in the forest, five long-and-grueling weeks ago, he had been armed and ready for action in seconds.

Thank God though for those negligently fired shots and the machine-gun fire that followed it. Morland could still remember the sudden sound of the distant rounds as they shattered the silence of the forest, startling him into shocked wakefulness. He knew full well, and Wild had not stopped reminding the team since, that it was only the speed of their constantly rehearsed bug-out drills that had enabled them to escape the well-placed trap.

As he went through his now all-too-familiar “lying-up” routine, he was conscious of the faint rustles of the others doing the same; quietly, systematically and professionally. In mere minutes the movements stopped. The forest fell silent, except for the hoot of an owl and the scuffling of a distant wild boar rooting around for food in the undergrowth.

However, desperate for sleep as he was, with their objective now so close by, Morland found himself on full alert, ears cocked, listening for anything that might indicate they’d been compromised. Try as he might to convince himself he was imagining things, he kept seeing the face of the Russian Spetsnaz commander who had stared so intently at him when he’d roared past on the back of an escaping scrambler bike as the dawn light penetrated the forest: medium height, early thirties, close-cropped, dark hair, and wearing green combats, with no identifying insignia or badges. The man who had orchestrated the riot in Riga, the man he’d seen talking into his radio just before the snipers opened up on the crowd in the Vermanes Gardens, the man who had ordered the cold-blooded execution of those young girls. One glance had been enough, but when they had finally stopped at the next secret bunker, he had checked the pictures on his camera. It was the same man.

Again, the same thought recurred: what was that Russian doing there, leading an ambush, when a man of his evident importance surely had more important things to do? And was it paranoia, brought on by fear and exhaustion and that single stare, that now had Morland wondering whether it was him the Russian had been seeking? If so, was the Russian still tracking him? Because, if the Spetsnaz commander had managed to find them once in the wilderness, might he be able to do so again? Was he closing in on them even now?

They had moved from hide to hide, never staying long enough to give away evidence of their occupation—tracks worn in the forests, the build-up of rubbish and bodily wastes, all potential giveaways to determined searchers with sophisticated kit. Some hides had been built so deep underground that they would defeat the most advanced heat-seeking drones. But after their near capture they had continued to move, regardless.

They had been equally disciplined in their infrequent use of the radio, always traveling some distance away from their hides to send information and receive orders; Corporal Steve Bradley, his Kiwi signaler, obsessive about never transmitting for too long. But still Morland worried; fears for which he had no answers, fears he had decided to keep to himself rather than alarm the others. They were all stressed enough as it was. Weeks of ambushes and intelligence gathering, followed by high-speed changes of location to throw off any pursuers, had taken them all to the edge.

Silence: time to trust the sentry and get some much-needed sleep. As he forced himself to relax, Morland caught the warm reek of his filthy combat kit and unwashed body. We’ve pretty much gone feral, he thought. Wild beards, matted, filthy hair and scrawny from living on the dwindling and ever-more basic field rations that the Latvians and Lithuanians had shared with them. Not that it mattered. They all smelt as bad as one another and they hardly noticed the stench. In fact, even if they had been able to, they wouldn’t have washed as the smell of soap could be enough to give them away to a patrol or a wild animal, so drawing attention to their position.

He’d expected his guys to cope; after all, they were experienced infantrymen and recce men, and they had done so—despite the usual grumbles. The Lithuanians, like the Latvians, were naturals. But, and somewhat to his surprise, Krauja had been the star. She had put up with the hardships, had taken her share of the stags, and her surveillance expertise had made her invaluable recceing the compound. More than that, behind her natural Latvian reserve, she could display a soldier’s sense of humor and, when minded, could banter with the best of them.

But now was not the time to be thinking about her; now was the time to go through his mental check list for tomorrow. Move out from here after last light, a five-kilometer tab through the forest to the final RV. Then move into position near the DZ—Drop Zone—ready to guide in the US Special Forces ODA, who were due to parachute in by HAHO—high altitude, high opening—with the radar transponder beacon Lukša had with him. Once they’d linked up with the Americans, the ODA would mark out an LZ—Landing Zone—for the helicopters bringing in the air assault force. His task was to then lead the Americans forward to recce the compound and bunker with its perimeter fence and minefield.

At the prospect of getting up close to the perimeter again, Morland felt the now-familiar cold grip of raw fear in the pit of his stomach. They’d chanced it last time and got away with it. To go back to that ring of steel and death was asking for trouble. But he consoled himself with the thought that, once they’d guided the airborne to the wire, it was job done. They were to step back and let the Americans do whatever it was they had come to do. The trouble was, in his rapidly increasing experience, he doubted it would work out like that once the bullets started flying. Plans seldom did. However, of one thing he was certain, there was nothing he could do about it right now. Instead, he closed his eyes and, body cushioned on a deep layer of last year’s pine needles, he slept.

1330 hours, Saturday, July 8, 2017

MAJOR ANATOLY NIKOLAYEVICH Vronsky marched into the temporary office of Colonel General Arkady Vasilyevich Kirkorov, the Commander of Western Military District, the man in charge of suppressing the Baltic insurgency.

Vronsky threw a smart, parade-ground salute. He then stood rigidly at attention, waiting for the general to speak, braced for another outburst of rage similar to the last occasion, five weeks previously, when he had debriefed him in St. Petersburg on the failure of the camp attack on the British guerrilla team.

Ordered by the President to oversee the capture of the British terrorists, Kirkorov had exploded in fury when Vronsky had blamed the failure of the attack on the poor discipline, training and weapons handling of the conscripts from the general’s beloved Motor Rifle troops. Vronsky was in no doubt that, but for the personal orders of the President, he would have been heading for the gulag.

Vronsky stood silent, eyes fixed firmly on the wall above the line of the general’s shaven bullet-head as he studied a Top Secret file spread on the desk in front of him. The key to survival in these situations, he knew—whether you were a highly decorated Spetsnaz officer or the newest recruit—was never to catch the senior officer’s eye.

Men like Kirkorov were not, in Vronsky’s experience, easy to deal with. An old-school Soviet type, he had first come to the attention of his superiors in Afghanistan in the 1980s for the scorched-earth approach he had taken to root out the Mujahidin in the Panjshir valley, regardless of the casualties to the civilian population. Subsequently, his promotion had been guaranteed as a result of the equally brutal tactics he employed as a Motor Rifle regiment commander in the Chechen wars; what he described with pride as “bringing discipline to the territory of the Chechen Republic,” but which left thousands of men, women and children dead, the capital city Grozny looking like Stalingrad, and a lasting legacy of hatred of Russia among the Muslim population of the Caucasus. A hatred that made it very much harder for the new generation of Russian Spetsnaz, like Vronsky, to establish networks of informers among the locals in order to root out and crush the insurgents.

The general was now doing much the same in the Baltics, but Vronsky’s current concern was not with them. His sole mission was to capture this British officer. Succeed and he would have the gratitude of the President. Fail and… he did not even want to think about it. His plan called for a sophisticated ambush by his Spetsnaz team, waiting downstairs for the “go” order right now. However, he had little doubt that the general would prefer to simply blitz the area and the British with it. And that was not what the President had ordered.

“Explain your thinking, Major,” the general finally said.

Vronsky caught the general’s piggy eyes looking up at him. He did not make the mistake of looking down. “Colonel General. Ever since the failed ambush, SIGINT has been trying to monitor the terrorists’ movements. They got a break when they realized that their patrol signaler has a distinctive way of signing off after a transmission. They then replayed all recorded intercepts and were able to track him as he moved south. First down through Latvia, then into Lithuania, and finally into Kaliningrad.”

“Kaliningrad!” the general exploded. “That’s Russian territory—and our Iskander batteries are there. They’d never dare…”

Vronsky waited and when the general said nothing more, he continued. “That’s our conclusion as well, Sir. They’d never dare. Also, we now know for a fact that this is a team of five ordinary infantry soldiers.”

The general began to growl in anger and his hands clenched on the desk. “Exactly what are you implying, Major?” the general demanded.

“Military Intelligence is categoric, and the FSB has confirmed that this is the case: the British always use their Special Forces as the tip of their military spear. Find the location of their Special Forces and you will find where they are going to attack. This is not only common sense, but it has been demonstrated time and again. Just as Spetsnaz always lead our attacks.”

The general thought about it. “Go on.”

“There are no Allied Special Force units in or near Kaliningrad. However, we are already picking up indications that they are trying to infiltrate British SAS and SBS, together with American Deltas and SEALs into Estonia and Latvia. Precisely where NATO will attack. If it is foolish enough…”

“So?”

“So, these five British infantrymen were in Latvia conducting training and were caught behind our lines when we recovered our Baltic Provinces. They have been left there. The border is so closely guarded by land, sea and air that nothing can get in and nothing can get out. They are stranded and making mischief. And that’s it. Nothing strategic, just being nuisances.”

“They’ve certainly succeeded in that,” the general growled, with the first hint of a smile of recognition for a fellow professional.

“I know, Colonel General. Which is why I’m here… Anyway, we believe they are on a recce mission. No more. No less. They are with a handful of Forest Brothers. However, each missile battery is guarded by a reinforced company and each is based in a highly defended complex. What possible threat could these few British constitute to us? What can they hope to do?”

“Attack our missiles…”

“With what, Colonel General? When I saw the British officer he was on the back of a motorbike, looked half-starved, and was armed only with an infantry rifle. What can he hope to do with that? And, even if he were to attack them, NATO knows the President will reply with nuclear missiles. They’d be mad. Which is why their Special Forces are nowhere near here. These men are lying low, trying not to be caught. Doubtless trying to do something useful, like reporting back our troop dispositions.”

“Your conclusion?”

“This is your opportunity, Colonel General. The President wants this British officer. Were it not for that I’d bomb them from helicopters and drones and send in our airborne to pick up the remains. Because that’s all that would be left of them. But the President wants us to give him this man to put on television. Alive…”

“Take a seat, Vronsky… Sasha!” he bellowed at the closed door.

A terrified-looking ADC opened the door and saluted. “Yes, Colonel General?”

“Vodka, two glasses, and a plate of ‘salo.’[5] And quickly. Major Vronsky and I have a plan to put together.”

The general turned back to him. “Your plan?”

“Colonel General, early this morning we intercepted another radio transmission. Same radio, same operator. It’s the British. This was about twenty kilometers north from Pravdinsk, in the forest south of the River Pregolya.”

“Pravdinsk… Our command bunker… and one of the Iskander batteries. If you’re right, a target well worth a reconnaissance, but not one they’d ever dare attack. More an opportunity not to be missed than a specific threat. Hmm… and I suppose there’s nothing they will see there that their satellites have not photographed already.”

“My thoughts entirely, Colonel General. My plan is to bring my Spetsnaz team of fifteen to reinforce the garrison. We’ll either catch them when they go in to do their recce, or we’ll zero in on them and catch them when they send their situation report back to London. Now we know what we’re looking for, we’ll locate them in minutes. Either up against the wire at Pravdinsk, or when they transmit… They’ll never know what hit them.”

“Very well, Major. But on your own head be it,” Kirkorov growled, pouring two glasses of vodka before unbuttoning the top button of his tunic.

Following the general’s lead, Vronsky drank the vodka in one gulp and quickly followed it with a piece of salo to line his stomach. Unless he could persuade the general otherwise, it was going to be a long, wasted afternoon and he still had much to do. “Colonel General, my men are hoping you will do them the honor of inspecting them before they depart. And I need to get them to Pravdinsk long before the British arrive. Would you perhaps care to… ?”

The general gave him a sharp, suspicious look. He had obviously been looking forward to telling some stories as they drank the vodka. “Go. I will inspect them in fifteen minutes.”

Vronsky drew up his men of the 45th Guards Spetsnaz Regiment in the vehicle hangar adjacent to the headquarters of the Kaliningrad Special Region and quickly explained the situation. An inspection like this was the last thing they needed, but Vronsky calculated that getting the general to inspect his soldiers right now was the best way of getting on his way before he got drunk and, perhaps, changed his mind. Besides, with only fifteen men in the detachment, Kirkorov would soon be finished.

As he stood, ready to greet the general by the door, Vronsky had time to think through his plan once again. Was he making a mistake?

From their radio transmissions, the British captain and his team were clearly heading for the Iskander nuclear missile battery, south of Pravdinsk. He could not imagine what they planned to achieve there, other than a recce of the bunker. They could not hope to seize a missile, at least not without starting the next world war and that seemed simply stupid. And he would not allow anything stupid to happen. Not with these men in the hall behind him. No, if the President really did want this man alive—and it seemed he really did—then ambushing him like this was the best solution. Decision confirmed, he and his men stood and waited.

The ADC arrived thirty minutes later and announced that Kirkorov was on his way with the base commander.

Vronsky ordered his men to attention.

The general, smelling slightly of vodka, strode in and, ignoring Vronsky, went straight to the line of men.

Despite himself, Vronsky was impressed at the way he went from man to man, taking a keen and intelligent interest in the specialist equipment that no conventional Russian soldier would ever see, but with which each Spetsnaz soldier was equipped. The new generation helmets and body armor with chest and back plates made of titanium and hard carbide-boron ceramics, impervious to the NATO standard 5.56 millimeter ammunition with which the British would be equipped; the grenade launchers; the AS Val assault rifles, so suited to operating with stealth and giving a minimum signature with its heavy, subsonic 9 millimeter, high-performance, armor-piercing ammunition, and magnified day and image-intensifier night sights; plus the collar and helmet-mounted radios that allowed them to communicate hands free.

Eventually the inspection finished. Kirkorov turned to Vronsky, who braced up to attention once again.

“Major Vronsky, your soldiers are impressive. Now, I have one question.”

“Sir?”

“You are certain that these terrorists pose no threat to our Iskander missiles?”

“They are five men and a few Forest Brothers. What threat could they pose to your company of highly trained guards and my Spetsnaz? No, Sir. They are obviously conducting a reconnaissance. And that is the last mistake they will ever make. The President will be forever grateful you allowed me to capture and hand them to you.”

The general smiled, looked at his ADC and pointed. “You. Make a note of Major Vronsky’s confidence and assurance.” Then he looked hard at the line of Spetsnaz. “Make sure you succeed in this mission. The President is depending on you. Russia is depending on you.”

Vronsky saluted, now doubly impressed: Kirkorov knew exactly how to play dirty politics as well as crush dissidents. He should never have allowed himself to be maneuvered into a statement like that but, had he demurred, he had little doubt the ambush plan would have been canceled.

“Thank you, Sir. My men will not let you down… Now, Sir. May I have your leave to carry on, Sir. Please?”

“Do so. The Motherland will be watching you.” Kirkorov gave a perfunctory touch to the peak of his cap by way of returning Vronsky’s parade-ground salute and walked out of the hangar, followed by his ADC and the base commander.

“Arsehole,” muttered one of the men in a stage whisper, as soon as they were out of earshot.

“I heard that, Lev Davidovich,” said Vronsky without turning around, not least to stop his men seeing the grin of relief that was breaking across his face at seeing the back of the general, and the imminent prospect of finally settling his score with this British officer. However, in that moment of triumph, he realized that he had allowed his mission to become personal. “I’m getting as bad as the President,” he muttered to himself, before turning to face his men.

“Mount up,” he ordered and they clambered up into the Ural-4320 trucks, which were to take them to Pravdinsk.

Just over an hour later, Vronsky and his men dismounted by the perimeter of the Pravdinsk command bunker. This was close to where the radio sked had come from and, unless the British were playing some double bluff, this is where they were heading for. But even if they were, so what? All that mattered was that he had arrived here before them and this time he had the benefit of surprise. He and this British captain were going to meet again and soon.

He looked at the luminous dial of his treasured Rolex diver’s watch: five and a half hours to sunset. Plenty of time to set up the ambush.

1500 hours, Saturday, July 8, 2017

FYODOR FYODOROVICH KOMAROV, the President’s Chief of Staff, could see that his boss was uncomfortable. Despite his lack of height, the President had a presence that had always commanded respect, if not fear. But, Komarov observed to himself, since the sinking of the Queen Elizabeth, things had not worked out as expected and people were saying in ever louder whispers that the President had lost that sureness of touch that had been the hallmark of his rise to absolute power in the Kremlin. Was the President losing that reputation for strength that had guaranteed his position up until now? He looked at the expressionless faces around the table and wondered which of them was, even now, imagining themselves in the President’s chair.

The President’s pale, bloodless face was now flushed with anger, the pale eyes protruded more than usual, and sweat glistened on the bald patch where the hair had receded. Instead of speaking with his usual cold menace when less than pleased, he had of late been prone to outbursts of anger, shouting at his personal staff for the smallest apparent misdemeanors.

He was shouting now. This time at General Mikhail Gareyev, Chief of the Russian General Staff, who sat at the conference table in the President’s austere office in the Kremlin.

“Now you listen to me, Mikhail Nikolayevich,” he raged. “Just over a month ago, you assured me that you would have the insurgency in the Baltic states under control! And now you tell me that you have lost freedom of movement, except when moving in force, on all but major roads because of the actions of these Forest Brother guerrillas! Was it for this that you thinned out the troops in Ukraine and the garrison in Kaliningrad? And what about detaining that British captain I ordered you to find? Still no sign of him? He’s making a monkey of me… and you for that matter. I won’t have it. Do you understand? If you can’t deliver him, I’ll find someone who can!”

Gareyev stayed silent. He knew better than to interrupt the tirade and Komarov assessed that, with the President in this mood, he would soon switch targets. He was right. The President next turned on the Director of the FSB, Merkulov.

“A month ago you assured me, Lavrentiy Pavlovich, that NATO was in disarray! And yet you now tell me that all your stations in NATO capitals report a renewed unity and sense of purpose and a determination to do whatever needs to be done to take the Baltic states from us! How do you explain that?”

As head of the FSB, the feared State Security and Counter-intelligence service and heir to the KGB in both reputation and practice, Merkulov, despite his mild, bespectacled appearance was deadly. Komarov saw him as the only man in Russia capable of frightening the President.

Quietly, almost nonchalantly, he murmured, “Vladimir Vladimirovich, you should recognize that it was the unfortunate sinking of the two mine countermeasures vessels and your decision to torpedo the Queen Elizabeth when it posed no threat to us in the western Baltic that united NATO. And, if we wanted to ensure that America stepped up to lead the Alliance, we couldn’t have done better than slaughter those American airmen and women at Lielvārde Air Base in Latvia. If we had left the Americans well alone, they would not be threatening us now. And NATO without the Americans is nothing. That simple. But we didn’t and they are. Which is the problem we are facing now. What else is there to say?”

There was silence around the table. However, nobody moved to reprimand or distance themselves from Merkulov and that told Komarov much of what he feared: it increasingly looked if he was inextricably linked to the wrong man.

The President visibly curbed his rage. As an ex-KGB operative and former head of the FSB himself, he knew the power Merkulov wielded and that he needed his support.

In an effort to regain the initiative for him, Komarov changed the subject. “Vladimir Vladimirovich, may I recommend that we ask for a report on NATO dispositions.”

The President looked at Gareyev. “Go ahead, please,” he grunted in an effort to appear magisterial.

“Vladimir Vladimirovich. NATO, under American leadership, has mobilized significant forces. In the western Baltic, the Alliance has amassed an amphibious force based on 2nd Marine Expeditionary Force, that’s an air-ground task force of around divisional size. Supporting it is the American 6th Fleet with two carrier battlegroups and a total of forty ships, with one hundred and seventy-five aircraft. All in all that’s a sizable force in its own right. At the same time, the Alliance has concentrated a strong corps of three divisions under Headquarters ARRC, that’s the Allied Rapid Reaction Corps, the British-led NATO High Readiness Force Land headquarters. They are now in northeast Poland, just south of the Lithuanian border.”

“Does that mean we are outnumbered?”

“No. But our forces are dispersed throughout the Baltic states, whereas NATO can concentrate all their effort to achieve decisive effect and we’ll be heavily outnumbered at that point.”

The President thought about this for a few moments. “So the strategic situation is still in our favor. If the Alliance is foolish enough to concentrate its forces at one point, which they must to launch a successful attack, they can be eradicated by just one of our tactical nuclear warheads?”

“Correct, Vladimir Vladimirovich.” The general gave a grim smile. “There may be a distinction between tactical and intercontinental warheads, but the reality is that even the smallest modern warhead is many times more powerful than the bomb the Americans dropped on the Japanese in 1945. Just one well-placed tactical warhead will rip the heart out of an army corps. Those not incinerated on the spot will be too traumatized to continue fighting. Many more will die in the following days and weeks.”

“And they can do the same to us with their Cruise missiles…”

“Exactly. The difference is that Russia is such a vast country that we can disperse and hide and enough of us will survive. Western Europe is heavily populated. Their electorates would never permit such a thing. What is more, their politicians know we really will push the button if we are attacked.”

The President nodded, calmer now. “As you say, Mikhail Nikolayevich, exactly. So, is this force they are pretending to threaten us with in the Baltic entirely American? What about the three divisions under the ARRC?”

“Vladimir Vladimirovich, you’re correct that the Baltic naval and amphibious force is largely American, but not entirely. The British have deployed their Commando brigade headquarters in HMS Albion, an amphibious ship, together with a Royal Marine commando, while the Dutch have committed a marine battalion in the Rotterdam, their amphibious ship. Besides that, the British have also deployed HMS Ocean, a helicopter carrier, together with all the escorts they can muster. Add to that the French carrier, Charles de Gaulle and a number of escorts—frigates and destroyers—from Germany, France, Italy, Spain, Portugal, Norway, Denmark and Belgium, to say nothing of, probably, hunter-killer subs from UK, France, Germany and, of course, America. So, the European members of NATO can certainly say to each other that they’ve stepped up to the mark. And, that is what our informants tell us they are saying to each other at leader and foreign minister level. The key point to make here is that, even with all their command and control problems, this force is significantly bigger than our Baltic Fleet. And that would be worrying if we thought that they were ready to risk nuclear retaliation, which…”

“They are not,” said the President interrupting, ignoring Gareyev’s concerns. “What about the divisions under the NATO corps in northeast Poland?”

“The strongest by far is the US Fourth Infantry, but on top of that there is the UK’s Third Division with a British armored brigade and a French Foreign Legion light-armored brigade. We’ve also just heard that the Italians are sending the Ariete armored brigade, which has always had a very close relationship with the ARRC. Most of the combat support—the artillery, engineers, reconnaissance and other support—is British, but with a fair representation from a number of other nations. And, of course, every nation will be contributing logistic units to support their own people.”

“And the Germans?”

“Yes. We’ve all been surprised by the Germans. First Panzer Division is now deployed and ready to roll in northeast Poland. And it’s strong. It has also been reinforced by the Polish Tenth Armored Cavalry Brigade.”

“Poles fighting alongside Germans. That must be a first. We certainly have united the Alliance…”

The President’s attempt at a weak joke was met by an awkward silence around the table.

Even a fortnight ago, Komarov thought, there would have been guffaws of fawning laughter. Not now, though, as the size of the forces building up on their border and the magnitude of their potential military miscalculation began to sink in.

Quickly the President moved on. “What do you assess is NATO’s intention?”

Gareyev replied, “Vladimir Vladimirovich, we have considered this question in great depth and our assessment is based not only on the Alliance’s deployment of forces and its capabilities, but we have also drawn extensively on both signals intelligence and human intelligence. We have called in every favor we are owed and risked exposing our top assets in the West to get at the truth of what is really going on. More than that, we have war-gamed and conducted operational analysis on several different scenarios. Finally, I have put all that mass of information to one side and asked myself the key question: what would I do if I was Admiral Howard, the SACEUR?”

“And what would you do, Mikhail Nikolayevich?”

“My view is that SACEUR’s intention is to surround and neutralize our Baltic Fleet in Baltiysk, their base in Kaliningrad, and be prepared to conduct an amphibious landing on the coast of Estonia. Meanwhile, the NATO Corps in northeastern Poland is poised to conduct an invasion with three divisions into Lithuania. All this would be preceded by a massive air campaign to knock out our air defenses and neutralize our air force. Effectively, NATO is threatening an envelopment of our forces in the Baltic states by sea, land and air, with the aim of forcing our withdrawal from the Baltics.”

“What about deception?” probed the President.

“Very difficult for NATO,” replied Gareyev. “I know from my own visit to SHAPE and discussions with senior NATO staff, when they were still allowed to meet us in Moscow, that the NATO military authorities are allowed to do nothing without the agreement of the North Atlantic Council. That makes it very difficult to conduct a deception operation because surprise would be impossible to achieve. Any strategic military decision must be authorized by the NAC. That is the NATO convention. As soon as a plan is put on the table, we will know about it within hours… Whatever security they try to put in place.”

“But,” mused the President, ever the conspiracy theorist. “Surely…”

“I too have asked myself this,” General Gareyev interrupted, again something he would not have dared to do even a few weeks before. “I have concluded that NATO, as an organization, is incapable of the lateral thought required for successful maskirovka, or deception, hence the total surprise we achieved three years ago when we invaded Crimea. The situation is compounded by the NAC, which insists on retaining political authority for all operations. NATO has always had the problem of being too large, but once they expanded to twenty-eight members they became impossibly large. The politicians thought that the more members the better but, as we know, Vladimir Vladimirovitch, less can often be more.”

The President looked thoughtful. “And our conventional response?”

“Despite their numbers we are ready for them. The Baltic Fleet will harass and interdict NATO’s naval and amphibious forces as it sails east to conduct landings on the Estonian coast. Even if the invasion force succeeds in getting through and landing on the beaches, 6th Army has established strong defensive positions on the Estonian coast on all the likely invasion beaches, while maintaining mobile armored reserves in depth ready to counter-attack. In the south, 20th Guards Army is deployed on the southern Lithuanian border. I can also report that 2nd Guards Tank Army has moved from its garrison in central Russia, at Samara, and been transferred to Western Military District. Meanwhile, the forces we withdrew from Kaliningrad and Ukraine will continue to contain the Forest Brother insurgency across the Baltic states.

“As for the air battle, NATO will be unable to win air superiority. Our Vorozneh radar in Kaliningrad is the match of anything they have and it can cover out to hundreds of kilometers. That’s enough to keep all of Eastern and Central Europe under surveillance and capable of tracking more than five hundred aircraft simultaneously. Once detected, NATO aircraft will be easy meat for our S-400 and S-500 air defense missile systems as well as our own interceptors. So we are confident that we will retain the air superiority that will allow us to defeat NATO decisively on the ground.”

“What about Kaliningrad? Is there a danger that NATO could try and attack us there?”

“We think not, Vladimir Vladimirovich,” answered the Foreign Minister, who had remained quiet up to now. “NATO goes on endlessly about being purely a defensive alliance. It is one thing to implement Article Five of the Washington Treaty to defend a member state, but quite another to attack Russian sovereign territory. NATO will never get the agreement of the NAC to do that. Apart from anything else, our friends in Athens and Budapest have confirmed they would veto any such proposal.”

Gareyev intervened. “We know that the Americans and British use their Special Forces as the tip of their spear. We have been watching them carefully and I can tell you there are no Special Forces anywhere near Kaliningrad.”

The President looked satisfied; very much more his old self.

Because if the Alliance does attack, Komarov thought to himself, and Russia does see them off as Gareyev clearly believes they would, then the President’s position, and mine alongside him, would be sealed for the rest of his life.

If NATO did the sensible thing and rattled their sabers, but no more, then the result would be the same: the President would have won. He and the President were only at risk if Russia were defeated and were that to happen, every man around this table would be in the same sinking ship. No, on reflection, although these were dangerous times, the President’s fate was firmly linked with that of Russia and it was the same for these men.

The President had not finished, though. “And, of course, just in case any of you are in any doubt, I will not hesitate to send a missile strike into Warsaw or Berlin the moment NATO attacks.”

“Yevgeney Sergeyevich,” he said, looking at the Foreign Minister, “how confident are you that the Americans wouldn’t take our use of tactical nuclear weapons as a pretext for an intercontinental strike?”

“A difficult one, Vladimir Vladimirovich,” came the reply. “On the one hand the Americans won’t risk Armageddon for the sake of a European city or a purely European military target. But, on the other, any use of tactical nuclear weapons on NATO forces, at sea or on land, will inevitably result in American casualties on a massive scale. That’s because of the preponderance of Americans in the force. If any Americans are nuked, then all bets are off. They’ll certainly respond with tactical battlefield weapons and I certainly wouldn’t rule out the American use of intercontinental ballistic nuclear missiles.”

“So the message is to keep any usage strictly limited to the Europeans,” the President said briskly.

Komarov, however, was not fooled by this effort to be decisive and positive. If they were even discussing firing nuclear weapons then something had gone very wrong with the President’s plan. It wasn’t meant to be like this. A month ago he had sensed the tectonic plates were shifting. Now it was clear that they had shifted. The question was: how far and to whose benefit?

2200 hours, Saturday, July 8, 2017

EIGHTEEN HOURS LATER, an hour after sunset, Morland and the team moved out of their lying-up position. They’d all had more than enough rest, a few mouthfuls of water and something to eat; in Morland’s case some dry biscuits and a can of cold meat from a ration pack he’d managed to find space for in his daysack. Not much, he thought, but better than nothing.

The night was clear and the light drizzle that had fallen as they lay in their hide had cleared. However, the moon had yet to rise and, even when it did—as a waning crescent moon—it would shed little light. They needed luck tonight and the lack of moonlight felt like a good omen. Lukša was once again lead scout and with Sergeant Wild now bringing up the rear as tail-end Charlie, they moved slowly and carefully, following the route they had already recced to the edge of the Drop Zone for American Special Forces. Occasionally they stopped to listen; each time moving into all-round defense and taking up fire positions as a standard drill while they did so. They were listening for danger ahead and off to the sides—sounds they might not hear as they moved through the forest—and also behind, for anyone following them. But all remained quiet.

After a couple of hours, Lukša halted and raised his hand. They were on the edge of the DZ. Again the patrol took cover and moved into all-round defense, this time, though, in a very tight circle, each person’s ankle crossing the ankle of the person to the right of them: now was the time to present as small a target as possible to any roving patrols or wandering civilians.

Morland checked his watch. Twenty-five minutes to go, well ahead of time and roughly as planned. He pointed at his watch to Lukša, who was carrying the radar transponder beacon.

He gave a thumbs up in response to signal his understanding.

The time passed all too slowly. Then it was fifteen minutes to go. Morland again confirmed the time with Sergeant Wild and Lukša, and each compared times on their luminous watches. A thumbs up from each. Now they were on the countdown.

Exactly at a quarter past midnight Lukša activated his handheld radar transponder beacon. It would transmit a response when interrogated by the incoming signal from the descending Special Forces parachutists and would guide the Americans in.

Meanwhile, somewhere thirty kilometers to their south, 30,000 feet above northern Poland, those Americans had jumped from their aircraft about fifty-two minutes earlier. Deploying their parachutes soon after leaving their aircraft, they had crossed into Russian airspace and were now descending by Hi-Glide canopy at around 28 kilometers an hour toward the DZ, guided by the GPS strapped to their wrists and, hopefully, undetected by radar. Right now, as they neared their destination, Morland knew they would be keenly awaiting the return signal from the radar transponder, telling them that there were friendly guides awaiting them at the DZ.

As for Morland, he was suddenly desperate to hear reassuring American voices, backed by American muscle, an indication that he might be taking the first step on his route back to home and some sort of normality.

He didn’t have long to wait. Mere moments later, he was conscious of a faint whispering sound and to his front, in the open field beyond the tree line, he saw the silhouette of a parachute descending rapidly with a helmeted, oxygen-masked figure wearing night vision goggles dangling beneath it, followed in quick succession by several more. The American Green Berets had arrived.

2330 hours, Saturday, July 8, 2017, Central European Time 0030 hours, Sunday, July 9, 2017, Eastern European Time

IT HAD BEEN a long day but, nevertheless, the night shift of the CCOMC, the nerve center of NATO’s strategic headquarters, was a hive of activity. In the open-plan command center, staff officers from all the NATO member states and several partner nations, civilian staff with impressive academic credentials and representatives from well-established partners like the EU and UN humanitarian organizations, planned and executed the campaign to eject Russia from the Baltic states.

In the Operations Center, with its banks of computers, multiple media feeds from different 24-hour news channels and social media, and its real-time satellite and drone surveillance imagery, up-to-the-minute information was filtered, analyzed and disseminated to the Command Group and supporting staff. Plans were then made and direction passed down to the Joint Command HQs at Brunssum in the Netherlands and Naples in Italy, as well as to NATO’s Maritime Command at Northwood and Air Command at Ramstein in Germany.

In the brightly lit CCOMC Conference Room, Admiral Max Howard, NATO’s strategic commander, together with McKinlay and Major General Skip Williams, the youthful-looking American Deputy Chief of Staff Operations, were running through the sequence of events for the operation due to be launched imminently, early on Sunday morning.

Williams was talking. “As you’d expect, SACEUR, there continues to be serious push back from the staff at Air Command. For an operation of this magnitude they’d expect to have several days to implement the air campaign or, at the very least, a thirty-six-hour window to guarantee even half-effective suppression of enemy air defenses. So, the idea of mounting the whole operation over one short July night is a major concern for them. They’ve pointed out that every war in recent history, even establishing a no-fly zone against an enemy as useless as the Libyans, has depended on an air campaign lasting several days.”

“That’s the way it’s going to be, Skip.” Howard was firm. “We’re in a different type of war and the old norms don’t apply here. An extended air campaign followed by a major land operation is old thinking. It’s exactly what the Russians will expect. We’ve got to be more agile. We know the integrated air-defense system covering Kaliningrad and Eastern Europe is exceptionally capable. I’m very aware that their S-400 system has missiles capable of engaging out to four hundred kilometers and they have shorter-range missiles for killing fast, maneuverable targets, so the Russians have the potential to make our air forces” job about as difficult as it can be.

“However, our aircraft are world beaters, so I’m confident that with F-22A Raptors and the B-2A Spirit Stealth bombers leading the way, we’ve got the capability to carve holes in the Russian air defenses to allow our other bombers through to attack targets on the ground. And don’t forget the new version of HARM, the High-speed, Anti-Radiation Missile our aircraft are carrying. The GPS allows it to pinpoint the location of the SAM, surface-to-air missile, radar emitters. Even if they switch off their radars, it will still hit them smack on the nose.”

McKinlay was impressed. He had not expected Howard to be so well-briefed on technical issues.

But then, he thought to himself, as an ex-naval aviator who had commanded a carrier battlegroup, he shouldn’t have been surprised. This technical stuff was essential bedside reading to aviators.

Howard continued. “But the bottom line is this. I’m counting on surprise and concentration of force in one massive attack by air, and Tomahawk missiles from the sea, to neutralize the Russian capability. And, of course, the key to it all is when the Brits activate Rasputin. The Russians won’t know what the hell is happening. Except that there will be a total collapse of their integrated air-defense system, as well as their nuclear and other command and control systems.”

“We know that, Sir. But the problem is Com Air, the Air Commander, at Ramstein doesn’t. He thinks he is putting his people into a suicide mission,” pointed out Williams. “In fact, ‘taken leave of our senses’ was one of the milder expressions he used. Couldn’t we… ?”

“Skip, I get it,” Howard interrupted. “I’ve spoken to him. We’re old buddies. But rightly, the Brits are keeping the circle of those in the know ultra-tight. God forbid, but they may need to use Rasputin again in the future, so we have to keep its very existence contained. I’ll have another word with him to reassure him… And of course it’s tough for those flyers. But that’s the way it’s got to be.”

The direction for McKinlay had been very clear—only Howard and Williams were cleared to be briefed about Rasputin and the circle was not to be widened. Even the SHAPE Chief of Staff, General Klaus Wittman, a German, was not being brought into the secret. But under the so-called “two eyes” protocol, such sensitive intelligence could only be shared between the British and Americans, and then only those with an absolute need to know. Such restrictions created real resentment in an Alliance where shared endeavor was a fundamental principle; particularly for the French, who complained bitterly about this privileged Anglo-Saxon club.

“We need to move on, Skip. Run me through the sequence again.”

Williams pressed the switch on the remote control and ran through a series of briefing slides. Once Rasputin had been activated by a phone call from McKinlay to GCHQ direct, the window of opportunity was uncertain. The briefing at GCHQ from Allenby had been very clear and had not changed: Rasputin would have a devastating impact on all Russian command and control systems, integrated air-defense and nuclear included, but it was uncertain how long it would be sustainable.

The most GCHQ felt able to guarantee was an eight-hour window—and even that was assuming an hour or two of confusion while the Russians worked through what was happening in the middle of the night and then started to fix the bug—after which the Russians would regain control of both their air-defense and nuclear systems. Hence the critical importance of the short, sharp operation to suppress Russian air defenses.

“We estimate that in the JOA, the Joint Operational Area, the Russians have got somewhere in the region of three hundred SAMs, organized into over a hundred firing batteries, with approximately five thousand Anti-Aircraft Artillery, supported by hundreds of overlapping early-warning, search-and-acquisition radars,” continued Williams. “That means that, once Rasputin is activated, there’ll need to be a constant flow of allied aircraft pouring over southern Lithuania, Kaliningrad and western Estonia to hit the batteries and other ground assets while the C2 is down. The targeting has been done very precisely and, as long as we achieve surprise, the Joint Force Air Component Commander, the JFACC, will be able to achieve air superiority before the air assault goes in.

“I’m not sure who’ll be more surprised: the Russians when their systems crash, or our flyers when they find they’ve got an open door and no incoming SAMs. Or, let’s put it like this, no coordinated SAM defenses. It’s entirely possible that individual batteries may be able to go into manual override and fire on their own initiative. Which raises a rather juicy prospect.”

“And that is?” asked Howard.

“If it’s an uncoordinated free-for-all up there, which it could be if Rasputin lives up to its name, then the Russians may not dare put their own planes into the air in case they get shot down by their own batteries.”

“That I like!” exclaimed McKinlay. GCHQ had not briefed him on that possibility.

Howard only nodded. “That would be an unexpected bonus. But if Rasputin doesn’t work, then we’ll implement the contingency plan?”

“We’re ready for that, SACEUR. It’ll be a conventional and potentially very attritional campaign. Air Com has a contingency air-tasking order that assumes it will take thirty-six hours to neutralize the Russian Integrated S-400 Air Defense system. When that’s been achieved… or not, it’ll be your call. If it’s looking good, it’ll be a case of reinforcing success by letting the Allied Rapid Reaction Corps loose into southern Lithuania and going ahead with the 2nd Marine Expeditionary Force landing in Estonia. If not, you can mission-abort at any stage and let the politicians start talking.”

The room was silent. The prospect of mission failure was too grim to contemplate.

“And it could get far worse,” interrupted McKinlay. “There’s a high chance that the Russians will go nuclear.”

“I’ve talked to Washington about that, Dave,” replied Howard. “The US has now moved to DEFCON 1. That’s ready for nuclear release. They’ll be making it very clear to Moscow through diplomatic channels that any recourse to nuclear, even battlefield, tactical weapons, will result in the launch of US ICBMs—which would mean the total destruction of several Russian cities for starters. The President has also talked to the Brits and the French, who have reduced notice to fire for their submarine-launched ICBMs to fifteen minutes. They’ve commenced targeting and prepared launch codes. We’re looking MAD, mutually assured destruction, in the face.”

“Do you really mean that, SACEUR? Will President Dillon really put US cities in the firing line?”

Howard reflected for a moment before speaking quietly. “Everything I’ve seen of President Dillon tells me she is serious about this and won’t blink first. She realizes only too well that if she hesitates today, chances are that she’ll face the same problem tomorrow. But next time without NATO to support her. She’s a very different animal to the last President and we’ve got to make sure the Russians understand that.”

“That makes Rasputin critical,” commented McKinlay. “If it fails, it’s either mission abort or we’re into a bloody conventional fight with the near guarantee of nuclear exchange… There’s a lot hanging on the shoulders of that young woman at GCHQ and her geeky mates.”

“Let’s move on. Skip, take me back to your comfort zone,” said Howard. “Even strategic commanders occasionally need to get into the tactical detail when there’s so much hanging on it. I’d like to go through the op to secure the nuclear command bunker at Pravdinsk again. After all, that’s the fulcrum on which everything else hangs.” It was time to be positive.

“As you know, SACEUR, the air assault will be preceded by a twelve-man ODA from the 1st Battalion, 10th Special Forces Group, based in Stuttgart. They’re being inserted covertly by HAHO parachute drop, ahead of the main heliborne force. They’re good to go on your final order.

“The Brit team which infiltrated in from Lithuania—the guys who’ve been working with the Forest Brothers—are waiting for them right now. Once they’ve joined up they’ll be the pathfinders for the main air assault. They’re also trained to immobilize the C2 circuitry of the Iskander nuclear-missile batteries once we’ve broken through the defenses and suppressed the compounds.”

“And then?”

“This slide shows a satellite photo of the compound south of Pravdinsk.” At this point Williams pointed out the ground: the small town of Pravdinsk and, four miles to its south, the compound with the nuclear command and control bunker. Next he pointed to the forest line to the north, with the open ground to the north of that selected as the LZ, the helicopter landing zone.

He flicked on a second slide, next to the photo, and continued, “These are the Special Forces Component Commander’s phases for the operation. Phase One is when the Special Forces ODA arrive on the LZ. Rasputin will be activated on DSACEUR’s call at 0100 hours, Kaliningrad time. That will trigger Phase Two, the air battle to suppress the Russian Integrated Air Defense System. Assuming Rasputin takes down their C2 that will give the ODAs two and a half hours before Phase Three, the air assault, starts at 0330, local Kaliningrad time. Obviously, if Rasputin does not work, we will not send in a heliborne assault anywhere near the Russian air defenses. It would be a massacre.”

“Two and a half hours between Rasputin going live and the helicopters landing?” queried Howard. “Surely it needs to be a lot tighter than that?”

“Ideally yes, SACEUR,” replied Williams, “but we have to take account of the inevitable friction of war. During that time the air forces have to neutralize the SAM sites, so they don’t take out the airborne on their way in. And that’s assuming Rasputin has worked.”

“Skip’s right, SACEUR,” interjected McKinlay. “That’s the reality.”

“Got it,” replied Howard. “What happens when the airborne land?”

“The ODA will be followed by a beefed-up air-assault company. One for each of the three Iskander sites. The land component commander has had to make some compromises here: ideally he would want at least a three-to-one advantage over the defenders, which means at least a battalion task force. However, putting a battalion on the ground so close to the enemy is asking for trouble. He’s therefore decided to reduce the air-assault landing force to an extra-strong, reinforced company group, but to give them plenty of air support to keep enemy heads down during their assault on the compound. We’re also confident that the air strikes will be so precise that they will not risk setting off the Iskanders.

“The other issue at Pravdinsk is a minefield, probably anti-personnel only, which the Brit team have identified next to the perimeter wire and is covered by fire from the watchtowers. However, they’ve also identified a route through. Their job, once they’ve marked the LZ, is to guide the air-assault company right to the wire. Once they’re in, they’ll have engineers prep the site for demolition, in case it looks as if the Russians are getting their missiles back on line, or it looks as if we are going to be overrun. While they’re doing that, the ODA will be physically disabling the circuitry inside.”

“And the other sites at Yuzhny and Ozyorsk?” queried Howard.

“Effectively the same concept of operations,” replied Williams. “Although we’ve had good intel from other Forest Brother groups, it hasn’t been to the same level as the Brits have provided. There may be minefields. We just don’t know. If there are, and we’re assuming there are, then we’ll have to clear them. But Pravdinsk is the key to the plan as command and control to the other two sites is routed through there.

“So, once in, they’ll disable the nukes at all the sites. My last point is that they’ll then prepare for follow-up air-assault landings by 82nd Airborne at each site. At Pravdinsk we reckon we can build up a brigade on the ground within around six hours. That is more quickly than the Russians can launch an effective, coordinated, multi-brigade counter-attack. Any immediate and localized counter-attacks we’re confident can be dealt with from the air. When the Russians realize what’s happening and get their act together, they’ll come at us with everything they’ve got. Unless, of course, us seizing the nukes persuades the Kremlin to back off. Which is what we are banking on happening.”

He stopped.

Howard was deep in thought, facing the eternal dilemma of the commander who must make the decision to commit men to battle with all its deadly consequences. He turned to McKinlay. “What do you reckon, Dave? High risk if the Russians counter-attack before we can build up an adequate force on the ground. Even if we do and we send in the ARRC to reinforce them, we’ve got precisely the attritional, conventional, land battle we’re looking to avoid. Besides, I’m not sure the Alliance will hold together if we get stuck into a major punch-up in Kaliningrad.”

“Especially as it’s a battle they did not even know we were going to start, so they can say it’s a battle they never authorized,” McKinlay mused.

“Are you now saying you’re not sure, Dave?”

“No, SACEUR, I’m not saying that. In fact we are only a few hours away from capturing the Russian nuclear batteries. There is no indication the Russians have any idea about what is to hit them. Which means the deception plan is working. Which also means we have a fallback plan, of sorts.”

“What do you mean, Dave?”

“The moment we have their missile bases, the whole strategic picture changes. That’s always been our thinking. And, even if Rasputin does not work, or only works for a short time, then we still have our hands on one hundred Russian nuclear missiles…”

“Sir?” It was Skip Williams.

“Yes?” Howard looked momentarily irritated at the interruption.

“DSACEUR’s right on the money. The ODAs each have a couple of guys who’ve been specially trained on the wiring of the Iskanders and more are going in with the air assault. They reckon that it will take about thirty-plus minutes to turn one missile round and, under our control, to target Russia. Once they’ve sorted out how to do one, the next ones will be far quicker. They plan to get a minimum ten Iskanders in each battery facing the Russians before there is any counter-attack. That really is a potent threat to back off or else.”

Howard listened intently. “I like the sound of that, Skip… I guess if we only have ten Iskanders ready to launch at Russia, that’ll be enough of a propaganda coup to humiliate the President and force a climb-down. Then it’ll be up to the politicians to offer him a way out. Whatever happens, even if Rasputin is overcome and they recapture the batteries, the Russians will have no idea how many nukes will work or what they’ll do if they fire them. Once we’ve had control of them, for even a short time, the Russians won’t dare to use them until they’ve all been stripped down and checked… Hell!” He slapped his thigh and grinned. “This is like a nightmare terrorist plot, on speed. And for once we’re the goddamn terrorists—we’re the ones doing it! It sure makes a change from being the ones being kicked, doesn’t it, Dave?”

McKinlay laughed as well. The Admiral was right: it nearly always felt better to be attacking than defending. “Full marks to us for lateral thinking. And it’s not a plan you’d find in a Staff College solution anywhere west of Syria. Which is why the Russians won’t have thought of it. But if Rasputin works—which it will—it offers us the genuine chance of winning the war at a stroke. We’ll hold the Russians to ransom with their own nuclear weapons until they extract from the Baltic states. It is a solution that will see the minimum number of casualties for the maximum amount of effect. Which is why I have always supported the plan… as you know.”

Howard nodded his agreement and so McKinlay continued. He knew that, while the buck stopped, ultimately, with the Strategic Commander, as his deputy he was there to support, reassure and share the burden of command. And that meant committing properly to the plan.

“To summarize: high risk, but not yet a gamble.”

“Thanks, Dave. I appreciate your full support. I believe we’re decided then, gentlemen.”

“There’s one other thing, SACEUR,” added McKinlay. “Thanks for agreeing to 3 Para helping to secure the site at Pravdinsk. That’s a good call for us. They’ve been training with the 82nd Airborne. I’m told they’ve even been jumping out of American planes with American parachutes. Not that they’re going to jump tonight, of course.”

“Too right,” added Williams with a grin. Decision made, it was time to lighten up. “I gather they’ve been having an airborne ball and not a Marine has dared to show his ugly—”

“Hang on…,” McKinlay immediately started to protest.

“It’s good to see the Special Relationship is alive and well, guys,” Howard said, interrupting and shaking his head in amusement at the age-old rivalry between the green and red berets.

Then he turned to Williams, his face now grave and obviously all too aware of the consequences of his next order. “Let’s roll, Skip.”

0045 hours, Sunday, July 9, 2017, Central European Time 0145 hours, Sunday, July 9, 2017, Eastern European Time

MAJOR ANATOLY NIKOLAYEVICH Vronsky put his head round the office door, only to see Major Pyotr Petrovich Luzhin, the Pravdinsk Guard Force commander, slumped over his desk, head on his arms and snoring loudly, a half-finished bottle of vodka open beside him.

Typical MVD, Internal Troops, he thought to himself, and these are the people responsible for guarding strategic assets like our Iskander batteries!

Picking up his body armor, helmet and webbing from where he’d left it in Luzhin’s office, he slung his AS Val assault rifle over his shoulder and walked down the corridor to the Guard Force Ops Room, where his team were monitoring the surveillance equipment covering the approaches to the perimeter wire. Underneath the Guard Force Ops Room, in the bunker below, was the Top Secret nuclear command and control room, with access only for those cleared at the very highest level.

Vronsky could understand Luzhin’s annoyance. He had arrived the day before with his men and equipment in two trucks. The fat, puffy-faced major with the colorless face had been surprised by the arrival of the Spetsnaz officer wearing no rank or insignia on his combat smock. Surprise had then turned to barely repressed anger when Vronsky had told him that, on General Kirkorov, the Commander of Western Military District’s orders, he was taking over command of the defense and protection of the Iskander compound.

“But Anatoly Nikolayevich,” protested Luzhin, “my men are more than capable of defending this compound. I have a well-planned program of mobile and foot patrols to ensure that the ground defense area out to five kilometers is properly covered. The perimeter is guarded, as you can see, by watchtowers, each with night vision devices and machine guns, which also cover the minefield. I also keep a Quick Reaction Force at immediate notice to move and I insist that my officers are out regularly to check that the soldiers are performing their duties in accordance with my orders. I can assure you, no enemy has dared come near this compound. What more can the general want?”

“I understand, Pyotr Petrovich.” Vronsky was diplomacy personified as he explained the position to his fellow major. “I appreciate that it is unorthodox for one major to give instructions to another, but I regret that I can say very little. I am here by Presidential direction, so I have to ask for your full support. This mission is of strategic importance to Russia and hence a task for Spetsnaz. I will report to General Kirkorov that I found everything here in first-class order, but please withdraw your patrols into the compound. However, I will ask that you maintain your QRF at immediate notice to move and double up the guards in the watchtowers.”

Luzhin, after the inevitable—and procedurally correct—radio call to headquarters, recognized that he had no alternative but to comply and took himself off to his office to drown his frustration.

Vronsky, meanwhile, accompanied by Senior Warrant Officer Dimitri Prokofitch Razhumikin, his Ops NCO, conducted a reconnaissance of the immediate vicinity of the compound based on a careful study of the map and aerial photos he’d brought from Kaliningrad. The ground suited his purpose admirably. The most likely route for the enemy approach was from the direction of the forest, to the north of the perimeter. It would give the terrorists the best cover and get them closer to the command bunker. His deduction that this was their target was further reinforced by a report from HQ that a drone with forward-looking infrared had picked up a heat source in the forest five kilometers north of the compound.

“That’s it,” he said to himself. “The bastards are on their way… and they’re not getting away from me this time.”

An hour after finishing his recce, Vronsky gave orders to his team to allow them plenty of time to get into position.

“Listen in guys and welcome to Operation BORODINO,” he said to the Spetsnaz team, assembled by Razhumikin in the Guard Force conference room. “First, the preliminaries. You’ve been split into four groups: Gun Groups One and Two, each equipped with the PKP Pecheneg, 7.62 millimeter light machine gun and AGS-30, thirty-millimeter grenade launchers, plus normal small arms and grenades; next is the Korda group, equipped as you’d expect from the name by one of my favorite weapons, the Korda 12.7 millimeter heavy machine gun—a beauty which got me out of trouble in the second Chechen war several times. Finally, there’s the reserve group. Note, too, that I’ve marked the map with a number of named spot points to avoid having to send grid references.” He paused to allow his men to take notes and check their maps.

“Mission: capture the British infiltration team as they move forward to conduct a reconnaissance of the compound. I won’t say more about that, as Senior Warrant Officer Razhumikin gave you the intelligence picture previously. The key point I want to make is that I want the British officer alive. We’ll do it by surrounding the team on all sides with a curtain of fire. On my order, the reserve group will move in and take them prisoner. Do what you need to do to subdue them, but the President wants the officer alive and looking photogenic on TV. Moving on to tasks. Gun Group One, you are to set up the unattended ground sensors along the southern edge of the forest line to pick up the intruders as they head toward the minefield. On my order, you are to engage them from a position you are to recce and prepare on the southern edge of the forest line.

“Gun Group Two. You are to act as cut-off group, ready to engage them from a position in the scrubby area northeast of the minefield, here. Again, recce and prepare a position that will prevent any escape from the killing area.” And he indicated on the map where he wanted them located.

“Next, Korda group. You are to set up in the watchtower on the perimeter fence, here. You are to engage the enemy on my order—and I plan to be in the tower with you—as they move into the killing area. For all of you, the Korda opening fire is your signal to engage.

“Finally, my reserve group. I want you ready to move out from the back gate of the perimeter fence to capture the enemy on my order, when they’ve been neutralized.”

Then he concluded, “If they do what I expect them to do, they’ll enter into the killing area we’ve prepared for them and be trapped between the minefield and watchtowers along the perimeter fence and the two cut-off groups. We hose them down and, when they realize it’s surrender or die, we put them in the bag.”

Finally, he ran through the timings and other coordinating instructions quickly, in order to give the groups as much time as possible to do their recces and get into position.

All was set and Vronsky knew it was likely to be a long night. But he’d had plenty of those and waiting in an easy chair, drinking coffee with the radio watchkeepers in the Ops Room, was infinitely better than lying in a damp forest, as he’d had to do last time he was on the trail of these terrorists. Anyway, he needed to be close to the team monitoring the seismic and passive infrared images transmitted from the unattended ground sensors. He also needed to hear what was happening on the “all-informed” Guard radio net. When things kicked off, as he expected them to either tonight or tomorrow night, he’d be able to run from the Ops Room and up the steps into the watchtower with the Korda. That commanded a clear view of the killing area and the two cut-off positions. It was from there he’d direct the operation.

As he walked back into the Ops Room, he saw instantly that something was very wrong. The images on the closed-circuit TV screens covering the Iskander site were alternately freezing, then breaking up into small squares and then crashing completely. Computer screens were disintegrating into wavy lines with psychedelic patterns and crazy colors. From the radio loudspeaker came only loud mush and white noise. Signalers were desperately checking their radio sets. Only the team monitoring the unattended ground sensors, which operated on a different waveband from the signals radios, reported no interference.

“Anatoly Nikolayevich,” reported Razhumikin, “we’ve got a real problem here. All radio communications have suddenly gone down. The CCTV coverage of the Iskander site has gone crazy and computers in the command network appear to be closing down without reason. Worse, we’ve just heard from the nuclear command bunker downstairs that the Kazbek nuclear C2 system has crashed and that Perimetr, the back-up ‘fail-safe’ system, is not responding to commands. They’re reporting that it seems as if their systems have been taken over by an alien command net. What’s just as worrying, as the systems are down we cannot tell headquarters what is happening. They don’t even know we’ve got a problem.”

“Can’t you use a landline to warn them?” Vronsky demanded.

“No,” said one of the Guard Force watchkeepers. “We don’t have one as that would be a breach of nuclear protocols. The only way information can come into or out of this compound is through the nuclear command and control net.”

“Which is now malfunctioning…”

“Correct, Sir.”

Then Vronsky stopped dead, his mind racing. The 45th Guards Spetsnaz Regiment had just established an offensive cyber-warfare wing to look at how they might destroy enemy command and control through Distributed Denial of Services: infecting communications systems with a Trojan. Had they been beaten to it by NATO?

At that moment the alarm linked to the unattended ground-sensor monitor unit sounded. Razhumikin took one look. “Contact. Intruder. Spot position Bagratian, southeast corner of forest. Activate BORODINO now!”

Vronsky was running out of the door and pulling on his kit before Razhumikin had finished his sentence.

0100 hours, Sunday, July 9, 2017, Central European Time 0200 hours, Sunday, July 9, 2017, Eastern European Time

AS ALWAYS, MAJOR Philip Bertinetti was struck by the pure joy of flying his F-16C multi-role fighter aircraft; small, nimble, with acceleration like a bullet, it felt as if he was wearing the aircraft rather than sitting in it. Today, though, he could feel a slight sluggishness from the additional weight of a full load of ordnance: a pair each of Sidewinder and AMRAAM air-to-air missiles for aerial combat, two GBU-31, Mark 84, 2,000-pound bombs fitted with the JDAM kit, which converted a “dumb” unguided bomb into an all-weather “smart” munition and was known as “the Hammer” for its destructive power, plus a HARM, High-speed Anti-Radiation Missile, for knocking out ground-based radars and a laser-guided Maverick missle for any other opportunity targets.

In addition, there was comfort in knowing that he could also rely on the 20 millimeter six-barrel cannon in the port wing, capable of a firing rate of 6,000 rounds per minute to help get him out of trouble, although, given the overall ammunition load, this would not last long.

Now he was once more heading to war, this time leading an eight-aircraft sortie from 510th Fighter Squadron—the “Buzzards.” Their mission: to conduct a low-level attack against the Voronezh radar system operating from the Pionersky Radar Station at the former Dnuyavka air base in Kaliningrad. Once they’d destroyed the radars, they would head back into Poland to refuel before returning to mount a CAP, a combat air patrol, to intercept and destroy the anticipated counter-attack from Russian aircraft against the airborne operation that was to follow them.

The “Buzzards” were part of a massive multinational air armada pouring into Kaliningrad from all over Central and Western Europe. Bertinetti knew that the largest sortie, a joint US Air-Force–Navy Suppression of Enemy Air Defenses, or SEAD, mission consisting of fifty aircraft, was already approaching its targets. The sortie was designed to look like a bombing raid on Kaliningrad and the base of the Russian Baltic Fleet at Baltiysk. However, it was, instead, fitted out with decoys, drones and HARMs, to overwhelm and destroy the air defenses protecting the approaches to the critical points: the Pionersky radar station and the nuclear missile sites at Yuzhny, Pravdinsk and Ozyorsk. Take them out and, in two bold strokes, Russia lost much of its offensive capability.

As he hurtled through the night above Poland at 30,000 feet and at a cruising speed of 435 knots, he felt the familiar nerves in the pit of his stomach, as the unreality and scale of what he was involved in hit him. Only that afternoon, in lovely sunshine, instead of the normal family Sunday afternoon spent by the officers’ club swimming pool, he had kissed his wife farewell at the gate of their married quarter by the air base at Aviano in northern Italy, before heading in to prepare for the mission. He might be a combat veteran with three confirmed kills—hence the three small Russian flags his ground crew had painted on the side of his F-16—but he was wise enough and modest enough to know that only luck had protected him from the insane randomness of war. And, like courage, luck was an expendable commodity.

Forcing himself to focus on his head-up display, he saw that in two minutes they’d be within the 400-kilometer range of the Russian S-400 Integrated Air Defense System.

“Don’t dwell on it,” he urged himself. “Only worry about the things you can change… and think of your guys.” He glanced to his right and there, in the darkness, just to his rear, covering his six o’clock and keeping perfect station, were the flashing anti-collision, navigation and formation lights of his wingman, Captain Mike Ryan. Sure, he’d had his baptism of fire over Lielvārde in Latvia a couple of months ago, but he was still pretty new on the squadron and needed all the reassurance he could get. On either side and to his rear, and also keeping perfect station, were the six other aircraft making up the bombing attack. All the pilots knew from the briefing that they were moments away from the death zone, and that meant they would all need the reassurance of good leadership. A quick radar transmission from Bertinetti and he knew they’d stay alert for each other and were ready for incoming SAMs.

Another look at the color flat-panel, liquid-crystal multifunction instruments and, right on time, the helmet-mounted cueing system told him that they had entered the danger area for the S-400. Automatically, the airborne radar flicked into air-ground mode to initiate simultaneous multi-target tracking by the planar antenna array installed in the aircraft’s nose.

“Won’t be long now before the radar locks onto us,” he muttered to himself, in the knowledge that the Voronezh system could track 500 aircraft simultaneously at ranges beyond 600 kilometers—in plenty of time to launch the S-400 40N6 missile with its range of 400 kilometers. At its speed of Mach 6.2, Bertinetti calculated that a missile would take just over three minutes from launch at that range to hit his sortie. And he was lead aircraft.

“Any moment now,” he muttered again, trying not to tense up and wanting to keep his hands and arms as relaxed as possible. When his radar picked up the incoming missiles, he was going to have to fly as he had never flown before if he was to be one of the aircraft that survived—if any survived—the impending carnage. The only slight consolation, he told himself as he waited for the warning from his alarm systems, was that as soon as a radar locked onto him, his HARM would fly straight back down the beam, provided he was close enough. That should mean, unless the Russians had some countermeasures he did not know about, that the following wave stood a very much better chance of getting through. And the wave after that a better chance still, until the Russian defenses were first breached and then overwhelmed.

Another check of his instruments. Everything was doing what it was meant to do, but there was still nothing. And they were closing fast on Kaliningrad.

Then the radio in his helmet burst into life.

“Apollo, this is Giant Killer, are you receiving me?”

“Affirmative, Giant Killer,” Bertinetti replied—thinking, what does ground control want?

“Apollo, we’re receiving reports that lead SEAD sortie is on target and has received no incoming, repeat no contact. They’ve had a clear run onto target and have taken out multiple SAM systems.”

“Roger, Giant Killer. Guess they’re keeping it for us then.” Bertinetti tried to make light of this surprising news.

“Apollo, on the contrary, we’re getting multiple reports that enemy C2 is totally scrambled. All their systems appear to be down.”

Bertinetti was dumbfounded. That could only mean one thing: something massive must have been initiated to coincide with the air attack. How else would the feared Russian integrated air-defense system crash?

But this was no time to be complacent. It was time to prepare for their own run in to the target and to pray that the gods of war were looking after them as well.

An hour later, Bertinetti knew that something extraordinary had taken place. As they had prepared for the mission, the 510 Fighter Squadron pilots had all assumed their attack on the Pionersky radar station would require them to penetrate the most sophisticated, integrated air-defense system on the planet. It would probably be a suicide mission. But something unaccountable had plunged the Russian command and control systems into chaos, for there had been no incoming SAMs.

True, the vehicle-mounted, four-barreled, ZSU-23-4 anti-aircraft guns had put up a fair amount of 23-millimeter flak, but a hit from one of those now-elderly anti-aircraft systems, while deadly, would have seemed more like bad luck than anything else, given the other modern weapon systems arrayed against them. But no SAM missiles were fired at them and the few uncoordinated attacks by Russian air defense MiG-29 Fulcrums and MiG-31 Foxhounds had been easily seen off by teams of roving F-15 Eagles providing top cover above the F-16s.

In fact, the raid had started like a night training-run in the Nevada desert. Led by Bertinetti, they’d gone down to very low level shortly after entering the 400-kilometer S-400 range and, guided by their LANTIRN infrared navigation and targeting systems, they’d approached the target at no more than 100 feet, streaking across the tree tops with the ground flashing by in the darkness below. Seventy kilometers from the target they had linked up with the eight F-15 Eagles above them. They carried advanced, counter-electronic warfare jammers to neutralize the radar systems of the SAM-6 batteries and ZSU-23-4 anti-aircraft guns guarding the Pionersky radar station.

As they closed with the target, Bertinetti led the sortie in a gradual climb to 5,000 feet. A few individual ZSU-23-4s started to put up a massive barrage of manually aimed flak. So, just short of the target and conscious of the streams of Russian tracer flashing past his canopy, he had overcome his natural instinct to turn and dive to make for a more difficult target and had, instead, gritted his teeth and held his course and height before releasing his two GBU-31, Mark 84 bombs. Guided by the JDAM kits, they hit the radar station in the center of the roof with a massive explosion. Pulling left and climbing aggressively to escape the flak and join the circling F-15s, he had seen the building erupt as the two bombs buried themselves deep inside—only to be followed by the other seven F-16s, also achieving perfect hits.

Extraordinary, thought Bertinetti. Although they had not said as much, HQ had sent out his eight F-16s in the hope that one or two might get through. And one direct hit would probably have been enough to knock out the radar. Instead they had all survived and all had scored. What was really going on down there in Kaliningrad, he wondered. Because someone had been, and was still being, very clever indeed.

“Giant Killer, this is Apollo. Mission accomplished.” Bertinetti spoke coolly into his radio to ground control. “Now heading to link up with tankers before getting back on CAP.”

“Apollo, copy that. Tally ho and good hunting.”

0115 hours, Sunday, July 9, 2017, Central European Time 0215 hours, Sunday, July 9, 2017, Eastern European Time

FACE BLACKENED WITH cam cream, Captain Jack Webb, commander of the elite US Special Forces ODA team, which had just jumped in, whispered urgently to Morland. “I’m happy with the LZ preparation. It’s tight, but workable. I’m leaving two of my guys to control it from here. I now need to get up close to be ready to laser target-mark enemy positions for air strikes to allow the company to assault the compound.”

The twelve men of the Green Beret ODA team had worked fast since landing. After hitting the ground, each man had bundled up his parachute and hastened into the cover of the forest. Parachutes, oxygen masks and other kit necessary for the high-altitude jump were quickly hidden under bushes. Once they were ready, they had moved out of the forest and onto the main landing zone, all the while covered by Morland’s team and the Lithuanians as they worked.

Given the imminent arrival of the air-assault company, preparations had been rudimentary but everything took time, especially in the dark and while trying to maintain operational security by making no noise and showing no lights. The center of the LZ was marked by nine infrared Cyalume lightsticks—invisible to the naked eye—in the shape of a large letter “A,” which would easily be picked up by incoming Chinook pilots wearing night vision goggles. A similar Cyalume was placed on the trailing edge of the LZ to indicate the direction in which helicopters were to depart from the LZ. Finally, the team conducted a quick recce to confirm that there were no major obstacles on or around the LZ; a Chinook landing on some abandoned farm equipment could be fatal.

“Right, Jack, here’s how we’re going to approach the perimeter,” replied Morland, acutely conscious that the only way to maintain their luck was to keep moving with the utmost care and deliberation. He did not want to lose surprise at this late stage. Once the heliborne troops that Webb had told him would be following had landed, all hell would break loose, but right now, all was quiet and the Russians had not reacted in any way. He was praying that nothing had alerted them to the arrival of the Green Berets.

He pulled out his map and with a shaded, red-bulbed torch, showed Webb the route: three hundred meters due east through the forest, then southeast along the edge of the tree line for a kilometer and a half. They’d follow the trees around what looked like the heel of a foot at the corner of the forest, before heading due south toward a sunken lane with a scrubby hedge running along one side, around 300 meters north of the compound.

This would give them some cover from which they could observe the anti-personnel minefield, the perimeter fence, watchtowers and the Command Bunker. Although, as Morland pointed out, they would need to listen out for the sound of engines, as that would indicate the hourly roving patrol was heading out of the compound. From Morland’s previous recce, he had calculated that it would then take no longer than three minutes before the patrol, if it turned in that direction, would be heading down the lane. And if they were caught in the sunken lane, it would be game over.

Webb took it all in and indicated that he was content with a brief thumbs up. Then, in a whisper, Morland outlined the drills so that Webb could brief his men before they set out. They would move in three groups, maintaining enough distance between each to provide mutual support in case one was hit. Archer and Watson would form the gun group and would move first through the forest, taking up a fire position with the GPMG and night vision goggles on the eastern side. They would then cover the scout group, with Lukša leading and consisting of Webb, his ODA engineer sergeant, Morland, Krauja and Bradley. Once the scouts had started their move down the outside of the forest, the reserve group, made up of Sergeant Wild, the two Lithuanians and the remaining eight men of the ODA team, would traverse the forest and wait on the edge of the tree line, ready to guide the reinforced company forward for its assault on the compound, or to be called forward to assist if required.

“That’s the plan. But tell your guys to stay flexible. It all depends on how we find the ground. We haven’t been near the wire, for obvious reasons, only observed it from a distance. The enemy seem stuck into a pretty fixed routine, but who knows what they’ll do when they hear our helicopters.”

“Sure, Tom. Give me ten.” And Webb crept back to brief his ODA on the plan.

Shortly afterward, after a whispered “good to go” from Webb and a thumbs up from Morland, the shadowy figures of Archer and Watson moved off into the forest. A brief shaft of moonlight through the clouds glinted on the belts of ammunition they had draped off their shoulders, giving them the appearance of Mexican bandits. But there was no affectation about it. They would be cursing the extra weight and the risk of snagging the linked rounds on branches as they moved through the trees. However, they all knew that if something went wrong, the GPMG would burn through ammunition at an alarming rate. That was why the rest of the team, him included, were all carrying an extra belt of 200 rounds, “just in case.”

After ten minutes, a whispered message in the earpiece of the personal role radio, given to him by the Latvian Forest Brothers, told him that the gun group were in position and ready.

Wordlessly Lukša followed with the rest of the scout group. Fifteen minutes later, they were through the forest and moving southeast along the eastern edge of the tree line. Morland felt a faint breeze bringing the scent of newly cut hay from a distant field. The moon was still low in the sky, its silver light, thankfully, still mostly obscured by clouds.

Then Lukša stopped and pointed ahead to Archer on the gun and Watson lying beside him, ready to feed in the belt of ammo now stacked in a neat pile to the left of the gun on a poncho, to stop the ammunition getting dirty. Perfect, but Morland would have expected no less from these two.

They took up positions in all-round defense. Morland tapped Watson on the shoulder and he tapped Archer. The gun group, carefully and quietly and making no effort to rush, re-shouldered the ammunition before moving off to their next fire position, on the heel of the forest covering the open ground.

Morland’s stomach clenched involuntarily and his mouth was dry with fear. They were about to go into the unknown; away from the comforting proximity of the forest into the open ground beyond.

Look at the others, thought Morland. They’re equally scared, but they’re just carrying on as if it’s a walk in the park.

He glanced surreptitiously at Krauja; face streaked with cam cream in the moonlight, blonde hair scraped back under a borrowed Latvian army combat cap, her combat smock with the overlong sleeves rolled up, Heckler & Koch 5.56 millimeter assault rifle—standard issue to Latvian infantry—tucked into her shoulder as she covered her arcs of fire. She looked professional. And deadly. If she was scared, she was not showing it.

Another wait. Another short radio message from Watson. The gun group was in position and ready.

They stood up and left the edge of the forest. Four hundred meters ahead of them Morland could see the hedge running along the edge of the sunken lane—and beyond was the perimeter fence of the Iskander Battery site.

Something’s not right, thought Morland. The lights were blazing earlier… they’ve turned off the lights. Why… ? Are they expecting us? But it was too late. The air assault troops were on their way and they were committed.

As they left the cover of the forest, they shook out as planned into diamond formation: Lukša leading, the ODA engineer sergeant forward right, Webb just behind him, Bradley as tail-end Charlie watching their rear, Krauja on the left with Morland front left. As they walked, they swung their weapons slowly from the hips to cover their individual arc of fire; front, left, right and back again, listening for any suspicious sound, looking for any movement. As they moved they peered into and through the darkness, watchful and as alert as leopards hunting the African bush at night. Finally, they entered a field of thigh-high, half-ripe barley, damp to the hand from an earlier rain shower. Now they moved carefully, deliberately, slower than walking pace. After ten minutes they had only covered 350 meters and Morland’s heart began to race. Ahead, he could now see the distinct outline of the hedge along the sunken lane and he realized that dawn was on its way.

Only another fifty meters. We’re going to make it!

And then it happened.

All his mind could register was noise and light, the crack of bullets and a crazy, flashing kaleidoscope of intense color: orange-and-white explosions and the vicious red of tracer rounds smashing through the air as they ripped past him in the darkness. And then, almost blinded by the light of explosions and gunfire, another noise engulfed him. It was louder than everything else and all the more terrifying for it—the deep, steady whump–whump–whump of a heavy machine gun. Morland risked peering for a brief moment over the heads of the barley. There, from a darkened watchtower, came the unmistakable muzzle flashes as the machine gun pumped round after round at them.

Then, to their rear right and also to their left, he picked out the very much faster, higher-pitched, chainsaw-like rat-ratta-tat-tat of what sounded like 7.62 machine guns, the tracer rounds shattering the darkness and cutting strips in the barley off to either side of their group. And as if this wasn’t enough, there was the crump of what could only be a mortar or heavy grenade launcher. It was already bracketing them; loud explosions and shrapnel whistling through the air. But all off to the flank, which did not make sense. In fact, how he had survived the initial maelstrom of steel was an even bigger mystery, but he was not complaining. However, and of this he was in no doubt, the Russians had been waiting for them.

And then instinct and training kicked in. “Take cover…!” Morland yelled as he jinked forward and dived down, then rolled to his left, trying to ensure that anyone targeting him would no longer know where he was. He then willed his body deep into the ground to get away from the hell above. His nose was full of the smell of fresh earth, while all around the cacophony of tracer racing past, explosions and mind-bending, psychedelic light continued.

Deep in the barley he saw nothing.

That means they can’t see me… Check on the others…

He screamed out names to make himself heard above the din and could just make out faint answering shouts. There was nothing for it, he had to get round to everyone and find out for himself. And stay low.

They can’t see you if you stay below the level of the barley.

He crawled back to where Krauja was lying; eyes wide open now, unfocused with terror. But, thankfully, unharmed.

He shook her until she focused on him and he gave her a smile to try to reassure her. “We’ll be OK… Just follow me!” he yelled above the noise.

The moment of terror passed and she nodded her agreement. Next they crawled back to find Bradley the giant Kiwi signaler, also unhurt, holding his SA80 above the corn and firing back on automatic, the fierce light of a Maori warrior in his eyes.

“Well done Brad… stay close. Aimed shots, if you can. Without getting your head knocked off…”

On Morland crawled around the circle. He found Webb, the ODA captain, speaking into his radio. “I’ve sent a TIC—troops in contact report. There’s aircraft up there on call, so we should have close air-support pretty soon.”

“If we can survive that long,” replied Morland.

Slowly he peered above the barley. There were tracer and muzzle flashes from their left, more sporadic now. That had to be that machine gun. More to their rear right. And then, from the perimeter watchtower, the constant fire of the heavier machine gun. It was as he had first thought: they had walked straight into a trap. What was it his instructor had drilled into him in the “Reaction to Ambush” lesson at the School of Infantry at Brecon: “Those caught in the kill zone, assault through using fire and movement.”

Bollocks to that! Whoever wrote that had never been ambushed by the Russians. Time to return fire. Even if there was no possible chance of winning a fire fight with three machine guns. Then find cover.

He yelled at the others, throat straining in an effort to make himself heard above the noise. “Form base line! Rapid fire! Peel off and skirmish to sunken lane!”

Then he tripped over something in the barley. It was the ODA sergeant, lying spread-eagled on the ground. Morland knelt beside him: no movement. He looked to have been hurled backward and onto his side by a burst of machine-gun bullets, which had taken him across the chest. Gouts of blood were still pumping out onto the earth from a series of gaping exit wounds across his back.

Webb, who was following him, joined him, felt the pulse on the sergeant’s neck and shook his head.

Leaving the body, they crawled to where Lukša had been point man. And there, as the fire continued to play all around them, they found the Lithuanian slumped in the barley, left shoulder soaked in blood and left arm now a bloody stump from the elbow.

Krauja pushed forward, ripped open her first field dressing and wrapped it around the remains of his arm. A second dressing was strapped around his shoulder. The others passed forward more dressings and while Krauja put on all the pressure she could, Morland pulled his field tourniquet from his webbing, wrapped it around Lukša’s upper arm and tightened it. Slowly the blood flow eased. He reached back into his webbing and grabbed a morphine syrette.

“Hold tight, Arvydas. I’ll just give you a shot of morphine to ease the pain.”

Lukša looked at him with gritted teeth. “We Lithuanians don’t feel pain. Just stop the blood and I’ll be fine. I want to keep my head clear for killing fucking Russians.”

Morland looked at him in stunned admiration and, in that moment, knew that with soldiers like Lukša, they’d get out of this somehow. He felt a surge of adrenalin kick in. And anger. Unaccountably the fear had gone. He looked at Bradley, SA80 again on automatic, continuing to fire above the barley.

“Boss!” Bradley shouted. “The gun group are in action. The fire is easing off.”

Morland risked another look above the corn. From the corner of the forest behind them was the unmistakable and pleasingly familiar noise of burst after burst of GPMG. Cleverly sited in defilade, it was out of sight of the Russians manning what had to be a 12.7 millimeter heavy machine gun. Had the Russians been able to see them, it would have been no contest: Archer and Watson would soon be dead meat. Instead, they were doing good work and he could see their tracer landing all around the machine gun position to their left. Then the fire coming from that direction stopped. And that gave them the briefest of respites as the Russians turned all their fury on the GPMG.

Bradley grabbed Lukša and, helped by Krauja, dragged him on his back through the corn like a life-saver pulling a drowning man to shore, while Morland and Webb continued to engage the enemy.

Inch by inch, foot by foot, they fought their way forward through the corn. Never had fifty meters taken so long but eventually, sweat streaming down their faces, they reached the edge of the sunken lane, slid under the hedge and into the bottom. How they had not all been killed was still a complete puzzle to Morland; they had been little more than stationary targets out there in the corn. Moreover, the compound guards were bound to have sophisticated night sights in those watchtowers—which was probably why the lights had been switched off—and that Korda could have hosed them down in seconds. The more he thought about what had just happened, the less sense it made.

Morland took a quick pull on his water bottle. His throat was raw with all the shouting and he needed all the energy he could muster. Leaving Krauja to continue to administer first aid to Lukša, Morland and Webb crawled up the other side. The heavy machine gun from the watchtower had given up trying to hit the GPMG team and now switched back to them. Tracer was smacking into the barley fire fifty yards behind them, where they’d originally been contacted. However, the rounds coming from their rear left had suddenly stopped; Archer and Watson must have knocked out that light machine gun, although fire was still coming from the machine gun to their right. They might be safe for the moment, but they were not going anywhere. They were trapped.

“I’ve given the reserve group the grid of the enemy gun group on the edge of the forest line to our rear right!” yelled Webb in Morland’s ear. “They’ve got plenty of fire power so they should be able to suppress them.”

“What about air?” asked Morland, marveling at how laid-back he was now feeling after the initial terror of the ambush. “There’s no way we’re going anywhere until that heavy machine gun is knocked out. And the air assault is due in any minute.” The luminous dials on his army issue G1098 watch told him it was 0315.

“Don’t worry about that. My guys at the LZ can guide them forward. And I don’t think the air assault will need much guiding in. They’re getting the full light show after all…” Webb gave him a grin. “We’ll stay put and help look after you guys. Anyway, I’ve got to guide the air onto the compound, and for that I need eyes on.”

Webb stopped and listened to his earpiece. He then turned back to Morland. “F-16 with Maverick inbound. Time on target, five minutes. Time to paint the target.”

With that he reached into his daysack and pulled out his An/PEQ-1 SOF Laser Marker, a hand-held, laser target-designator, the size of a small video camera. He switched it on and pointed it at the watchtower where their tormentor was located, looking through the optical sight as he did so. As he held it steady on the ground, an intensely focused laser beam—invisible to the men in the tower—shone at the target. It would be picked up by the sensor on the incoming aircraft; the muzzle flash of the Korda being Webb’s aiming point.

They waited, Webb locked onto his target as if he was on the range and firing a rifle. Then, high above them and just audible, even above the firing, Morland heard the familiar scream of a fast jet engine.

“Won’t be long now,” muttered Webb. “Stand by for impact…”

0200 hours, Sunday, July 9, 2017, Central European Time 0300 hours, Sunday, July 9, 2017, Eastern European Time

“GIANT KILLER, THIS is Apollo, refuel complete. Now on station as CAP.” Bertinetti spoke briefly into his microphone as his F-16 soared high above the flatlands of Kaliningrad, with Captain Mike Ryan tucked in close on his starboard side and just astern.

“Copy that, Apollo. Be aware. You’ve now got NATO’s Boeing E-3A Sentry aircraft providing air surveillance in case of enemy air attack. An Airseeker RC-135 Rivet Joint SIGINT aircraft from the RAF is also airborne and reports Russian C2 still down. SAM threat is minimal.”

“Roger, Giant Killer. Send sitrep regarding air assault landings.”

“Giant Killer. H-Hour confirmed, 0330, Apollo.”

Bertinetti breathed a sigh of relief. It was one thing to have flown in fast and low, hit the Pionersky radar site as ordered and then to extract quickly, but at the mission brief he had been less than happy to be told that the Buzzards of 510th Fighter Squadron would then be required to provide a two-ship CAP, combat air patrol, following their bombing run. At the time, expecting few if any of them to survive the attack, he had felt that was an order too far. However, he knew the drill well enough: just get on with it. There was no way he was asking anyone else to take on the extra tasking. Mike Ryan had caught his eye and nodded; he was Bertinetti’s wingman and that was an end of the matter. He was coming, too.

Mission complete, the other six aircraft had headed straight for home. The pilots would first debrief and then creep home and into bed, almost as if nothing had happened.

However, it was still very much happening for him and Ryan. Far to the east, and invisible in the dark forests far below, the first fingers of dawn were beginning to lighten the faint curve of the horizon. He checked the time: sunrise in an hour and then they too could return to Aviano. He stifled a yawn and tried to stretch his legs. He had been strapped into his seat for four hours now; his G-suit felt too tight against his body and he longed to remove his helmet to scratch his head. The F-16 was always a great aircraft to fly, but it was well past time to count his blessings and head home before his luck ran out. Nevertheless, he set his instruments, activated auto-pilot and settled back to cover the area of sky above south-central Kaliningrad in a series of “racetrack”—long loop—patterns.

It was not long before his radio burst into life again.

“Apollo, this is Giant Killer. Are you receiving me? TIC now.”

“Apollo, Roger. Send details.”

“Troops in contact, enemy grid 893456, south of Pravdinsk. Under fire from heavy machine gun. They have laser designator and are ready to paint the target. Be aware, target on edge of Iskander compound, possible that nuclear warheads have been armed. Accuracy essential.”

“Apollo, copy that. Out.”

At the words “nuclear warheads armed,” all the fatigue of a long night flight and his body’s craving for sleep vanished. Bertinetti checked his position. He entered the enemy grid reference into LANTIRN. The infrared navigation and targeting systems updated itself, giving him a time on target of five minutes. He called ground control again to get the marker to lase the target.

“Giant Killer, relay to TIC. Time on target five minutes. Paint the target in two.”

Then he called Ryan. “Ghost One, this is Apollo. Cover my six o’clock while I go in.”

He put the F-16 into a dive and it responded like a thoroughbred racehorse let loose from the stalls. Flying low and fast, Bertinetti selected the stores management system page on his right-hand multifunction display, before punching the appropriate button around its perimeter to power up the Maverick. As he did so, the missile gyro ran up to speed in preparation for launch and lit the cockpit indicator, showing it was ready to fire. As he reached his pull-up point, he climbed and instantly picked up the target in the inky black below him. Flying at 3,000 feet, it was all too easy to see the streaks of tracer fire burning into the darkness. Without emotion, Bertinetti depressed his cage switch, allowing the missile to start to look for the laser marking the target.

Immediately the weapon-seeker symbology appeared on his head-up display in front of him, the signal for him to line up his aircraft with the target… He counted the seconds down from twenty, as he had done so often on the firing ranges on Exercise Red Flag, back home in the Nevada desert. At fifteen seconds his head-up display indicated target-lock on. The sensor on the Maverick missile had detected the laser beam as it bounced off the “painted” target being marked by the laser operator on the ground.

“Hold it steady, boy. Hold it steady,” Bertinetti urged the unknown operator.

The laser beam remained rock steady.

This guy’s a serious pro. He’s done this before. And he’s under fire.

Bertinetti felt, once again, the respect an airman feels for the man on the ground, close up and personal with the enemy. Bertinetti had encountered much worse target designation on a peacetime range with no one shooting back.

I’m not going to let this guy down. He’s done his job perfectly and now I’m going to do mine.

As he closed in, he concentrated on holding the aircraft steady. Get this wrong and he would not only blow himself and the Iskanders to eternity, he would go down as the man who sparked the nuclear exchange that ended civilization. That was if there was anybody left alive to remember it.

“Now!” he told himself, as he pressed the weapon-release button on the top of his stick with his right thumb. The missile fired forward off its launch rail and, as it blasted into the blackness in front of him, he was momentarily blinded by the flaming propellant. He felt the wing rise a fraction as the weight was removed and he automatically moved to correct the aircraft trim.

Below him, the missile accelerated toward its target.

0225 hours, Sunday, July 9, 2017, Central European Time 0325 hours, Sunday, July 9, 2017, Eastern European Time

HIGH ABOVE THEM, Morland was conscious of the scream of a fast jet engine.

“Won’t be long now!” shouted Webb. “Stand by for impact…”

Morland looked up and, in the sky above the muzzle flashes, the first faint streaks of dawn light illuminated a dark, cigar shape, which descended rapidly toward the watchtower where the Korda continued to pump out a steady stream of tracer. It flew inexorably, a creature with a computer brain of its own.

Morland and Webb dropped into the bottom of the sunken lane and were conscious only of a blinding flash lighting the horizon above them, followed a split second later by an ear-splitting roar as the Maverick missile, fitted with laser seeker and 298-pound penetrative-blast, fragmentation warhead, hit the watchtower and eradicated it with the precision of a sniper’s bullet. From his position three hundred meters away, Morland was surprised by how little blast there was; all the energy appeared to have gone downward. He scrambled up the edge of the sunken lane and peered at the perimeter through the base of the hedge. The crack and thump of incoming machine-gun fire had disappeared and when the smoke cleared, there was no longer any watchtower.

“Neatly done,” said Webb. “Bull’s-eye… and all without setting off the nukes.”

“Shit, that I hadn’t thought of…” muttered a suddenly very relieved Morland, as a figure in a para smock, face smeared in cam cream and framed by a British airborne ballistic helmet, unexpectedly appeared beside him.

Morland realized he must have been temporarily deafened by the noise of gunfire and explosions as he had not heard the man approach. He looked over his shoulder and saw two similarly equipped soldiers on either flank, covering the lead man. One was carrying an SA-80 assault rifle and the second a Minimi, 5.56 millimeter, light machine gun.

The lead man knelt beside him. “Sergeant Atkins, Recce Platoon, 3 Para. We’re the advance party. Main body of the company is approaching the LZ right now,” he said in a strong Brummie accent.

Morland looked up at him. “Captain Tom Morland, Recce Platoon commander, 1 Mercian. What kept you?” he said with a grin, as a massive sense of relief swept over him. Somehow, with 3 Para here, he knew it was going to be alright.

Behind them, Morland now heard the steady, rhythmic whack, whack of double rotors as Chinook helicopters landed beyond the forest to the north. And then the brief silence was shattered as multiple streams of tracer again lit the sky. This time, though, the firing came from above the trees to his rear left. Apache attack helicopters, laden with lethal ordnance and equipped with thermal and night-imaging sights, were putting down concentrated fire onto the compound perimeter, prior to shooting in the assault company attack and blasting any surviving defenders into surrender.