Svetlana smiled in thanks.
“Ok, it is just me being girlie and realising… ..” her voice tailed off to leave an awkward silence.
Caroline looked at her watch, as much to change the mood as anything.
“Whoops, we have to hustle now!” picking up velcro backed straps she stepped behind the Russian girl. “Okay then, let us get the rest of this rig on and get you strapped in and connected up.”
One hour later, and sealed in a life support capsule in the bowels of the stealth aircraft Svetlana’s heartbeat rose as the aircraft lined up on the runway of the airbase in Scotland, and the engine pitch rose to a howl. The machine lunged forward as brakes were released and she found herself breathing rapidly as the vibration ceased and they banked steeply. Alone in her capsule she had a nuclear weapon and various other ground attack, air-air missiles and the like as neighbours. If the aircraft got into trouble she was trapped there, the crew could eject but Svetlana did not even have a parachute. With only an iPhone for company she settled herself and let the strains of Elton John’s ‘Goodbye Yellow Brick Road’ album distract her, after quickly skipping the first track, Funeral for a friend.
Admiral Petorim, Marshal Ortan and General of Aviation Sudukov received their summons to the premiers’ chamber hours after the disaster at the North Cape was known. There was no chance that the premier was not already aware of the full facts, but the hours ticked by without his demanding an explanation.
Of the three, Ortan felt the most confident, because after all he had taken no part in the planning of this attempted breakout, and none of his ground forces were involved. For the other two, it must have been something akin to waiting outside the headmaster’s office, knowing a painful punishment awaited them within, except of course that they may not survive the visit.
They had been made to wait a further twenty minutes in the anteroom, under the gaze of the premier’s guards before the double doors opened and an aide stood to one side to permit them to pass, following them in and closing the doors behind them.
The premier of the new Soviet Union sat at his desk, his face not only calm but with an amiable expression upon it. Beside his desk stood Elena Torneski, his KGB chief, a good enough looking woman in her late thirties who no one really knew much about, owing to being raised from obscurity by the premier to replace the ‘disappeared’ Peridenko.
The senior officers of the three services came to a halt and stood rigidly at attention, and the aide reached into his jacket, stepped quickly up behind them and fired once, allowing the body to fall before firing once more, shifting aim from its head to slightly left of the centre of its back. Torneski jumped each time the small calibre silenced pistol fired.
“I have decided, gentlemen, that where we went wrong was the lack of the proper motivation,” said the premier pleasantly. “You answered to him… and now you answer to me, in all things military.” He pressed a button on the desk and the doors opened for a squad, which rolled the dead Marshal into a body bag and carried it out. Marshal Ortan’s deputy was hurrying into the anteroom, summoned by the premier's aide and almost collided with his former boss. “General Tomokovsky… come join us!” called out the premier, and the soldier marched quickly in.
“Petorim, our submarines are not yet in the Atlantic, what are you going to do to make that happen?” The admiral stammered and kept looking down at the spot where the marshal had fallen.
“You have no reply for me Admiral, no contingency plan?” He studied the naval officer’s face for a few moments before turning to the airman. “General, you will focus the air forces efforts on Germany; it may be that the only way to win this war is to have the Channel ports in our hands by the time the next convoy arrives.” He then turned back to the admiral. “Our submarines are performing no useful function where they are. You therefore have two choices, scuttle them, give your sailors rifles and send them to Germany, or… blast your way through the North Cape… AND SINK THOSE DAMN CONVOYS!”
All semblance of calm had vanished; the premier’s face was purple with rage as he leant forward to scream the last words at Admiral Petorim.
He sat back in his chair, breathing heavily and it was a full minute before he could speak again.
“General Tomokovsky, Miss Torneski. You command our covert forces in the West and I want you to plan a mission targeting what is on this list.” The new commander of land forces reached over and took the proffered sheet of paper, glancing down the list he answered.
“Sir, we already have plans, updated daily should it be necessary to eliminate some of these, as I am sure the KGB has also. It is simply that the missions are not survivable.”
“General, do I look like a ‘people person’ to you?”
“Miss Torneski, General… you will action those missions tonight. I care nothing for the lives of your men and women, but unless you want to witness your loved ones sharing the late marshal’s fate, in this very room, you will ensure success before this time next week. I am sure the air force and navy will extend you every assistance that you may require, as that threat includes their families also.”
He looked them both over before opening a file on his desk and commencing to read the contents.
“One week, not a day more and not a single excuse,” he said without looking up, and they filed from the room.
Lt Col Reed watched the last rifle company section cross the bridge, leaving only radio operators in abandoned company headquarter positions, a half dozen gun groups, Milan crews and snipers of course.
Smoke and HE were concealing the movement of the troops to prepared positions behind the canal, leaving the ‘island’ between the Mitterland Kanal and the river Elbe. Reed had spent several days arguing first with brigade and then with division to make this happen, he had been refused on both occasions. His argument was simple, if the bridge across the canal were dropped his troops would have to abandon their equipment and swim for it. If a landing, airborne or amphibious, got behind them then the battalion and its attached units were lost. Eventually he had gone to SACEUR, and put his case before General Allain who not only agreed entirely, but also sent strongly worded memos to both commanders of the subordinate headquarters. Reed got his way but got himself crossed off a couple of Christmas card lists in so doing.
There was nothing to suggest to the enemy that the trenches to the rear of the canal were anything but in-depth positions. However, with a little luck they would waste a lot of firepower on the old positions.
The E-3 Sentries had reported movement forty miles to the enemies rear and predicted it was the OMUs moving up, Operational Manoeuvre Units that would dash in to take advantage of any break-through in NATOs lines.
There was no counter-battery fire coming from the east either, so they were preserving their stocks for an imminent softening up thought Reed as he turned and made his way back to the battalion CP. His two companies of Coldstreamers were back up to full strength, as was the 82nd. The Hussars had a full complement of tanks but one troop of the state of the art Challenger IIs had been withdrawn, and replaced with a troop of Mk 11 Chieftains, mothballed equipment now brought back into service.
On a more positive note, his Blowpipe crews had re-equipped with Stinger RMP, re-programmable microprocessor, Block 1 missiles, courtesy of Major Popham and the United States Army. All his replacements for the Guards battalion had arrived but equipped with SLRs as the SA-80 stock had run out. The weapons had seen prior service but had been re-parkerised and refurbished before going into storage. The younger guardsmen rushed through training had little experience with the weapon but the called up reservists and the volunteering reservists with a few years behind them certainly had.