Shaking his head, he rolled back over to the computer and began tapping out a report. General Flynn would have already been alerted by the FLASH signal he’d sent when the Russians began manoeuvring, but he had to know as much as he could. The storm was finally about to break… and the British had to react.
Forward Command Post
RAF Habbaniyah, Iraq
7th May 1941
No one could understand how it had survived, but survive it had; an oasis of British power in the centre of Iraq. The RAF had flown Harriers and Jaguars from the base before the Germans advanced into Turkey, and it was now serving as the centre of military control. Only a handful of ground-support and troop transport aircraft were based there now; it was too risky. If the enemy – either one – managed to get within artillery range, they could shut the base down within minutes.
General Flynn pulled himself to his feet as the klaxons sounded, alerting the base that the war was about to hot up again. A flurry of electronic signals were already flickering out, alerting the commanders of the various army deployments scattered around Iraq, watching for the Soviets. Others went to the forces closer to the German fronts; alerting them in case of a simultaneous offensive.
“Report,” he snapped, as he strode into the situation room. It had been extensively modified, even though it was mostly for show; some of the equipment was back in Arabia. The danger of some of it falling into German or Soviet hands was too great.
Privately, Flynn thought that it was nonsense, but the Germans had already shown themselves way too adaptable for British peace of mind. Even seeing a British item could inspire them to solve previously unsolvable problems, and God only knew what would encourage a German genius to create a new and deadly weapon.
“We have a major Soviet offensive developing,” Major Gatling reported grimly. The former SAS officer who now limped around as a result of a mission in the Balkans he refused to discuss waved a hand at the screens. “The drones are overhead now, spying on them and reporting their movements.”
Flynn nodded. “Where are they going?”
“Basra seems to be the first target,” Gatling reported. He glared down at the display. “The Iraqis are already taking fire from long-range guns moved up overnight.”
Flynn scowled. He’d hoped never to have to work with Arabs again; at least the British-born Muslims understood some of the rudiments of modern war. The remains of the Iraqi Government had gone all out building a series of defence lines around the city that could have been cracked in an hour by the British.
“The Iraqis are screaming for our help,” Captain Margaret Flannery said. Assigning the gorgeous Captain – who had very impressive skills in unarmed combat – to liaison officer had been intended as revenge for Iraqi incompetence. She short-circuited their thinking processes; they were almost grateful when Flynn ‘rescued’ them.
“Bother,” Flynn said mildly. The majority of the British force in the region, Force Basra, was stationed near Basra, at the old base ten miles south of the city. The Iraqis themselves had nearly ten thousand men – mainly conscripted refugees from the north – in the city themselves, but few of them were worth anything. The Arab Legions that the British were training, as part of their citizenship for the Republic of Arabia, were nowhere like ready.
“They’re saying that they will implement your plan now,” Flannery said. Flynn chuckled; his plan, which had involved defending Basra with minimum force and outflanking the Soviets, would take more time than they had. The marshes north of Basra would have made a formidable obstacle – if the Iraqis had listened and prepared them for defence. It was the eternal problem of the Middle East; the governments dared not appoint strong and competent generals, because they would be overthrown.
“Tell them… tell them to suck them into the city,” Flynn said, knowing just how many would die. “Tell them… we’re sending what help we can.”
“Yes, sir,” Flannery said.
“Air Commodore Cromwell on line two,” Captain Ransom reported. “Here, sir.”
Flynn took the phone. “Flynn,” he said. “I need you to get in the air.”
“Wilco,” Cromwell said, without arguing. “Do you have any particular targets in mind?”
Flynn stared over at the display. The Soviet air formation was heading towards Basra, far too many to be swatted out of the air. It was one of the odder details of their strange war; the RAF, which had far superior aircraft, needed landing strips, while the Red Air Force could land almost anywhere. On the other hand, the RAF had far better coordination and was almost invulnerable – as long as the missile supply held out.
“Hit their guns, and then the tanks,” he said. Not for the first time, he wished that he had been able to convince the Prime Minister to authorise the use of gas; that would have shut down the Soviet airfields. A thought struck him and he tapped his PDA, issuing orders to the submerged submarine in the Gulf; ordering it to fire its Tomahawks at the airfields, when the Russians were trying to land.
He closed the connection and stared up at the German icons on the map. They remained where they were, unmoving. Scouts and some of the SAS troops reported that they didn’t seem to be preparing for an offensive. He gave orders to have them watched, wishing that the space program would hurry up and give them some more recon satellites.
Another phone rang. “Sir, it’s the Prime Minister,” Captain Ransom said.
That bastard finds out everything, Flynn thought, with genuine admiration. “Put him through.” There was a pause. “Yes, Prime Minister?”
Over Iraq/Iran Border
Nr Basra
7th May 1941
Flying Officer Mick Eccleston sucked in a breath as the scope of the Soviet offensive became clear. Little else had quite the same scope; even the American Invasion of Syria hadn’t been so… impressive. There were thousands of tanks and thousands of lorries and thousands of aircraft, and even though none of them matched his Harrier, he wondered if there weren’t enough of them to make good the difference.
I wonder if Stalin made his famous quote about quantity having a quality all of its own yet, he thought, as he banked the Harrier high over the battlefield. Smoke and flames were already rising up from Basra as the Soviets began bombing and shelling the city, aiming more at random than at any particular target. The Soviet planes had no way of knowing that he was here; the Russians hadn’t deployed a radar station to Iran.
A good thing too, he thought, as the Harrier turned slowly, its flight computer receiving updates from the sensors scattered around Basra and the AWACS, far to the south. The Harrier was carrying a new weapon, one that few in the MOD approved of, and it was handling sluggishly. The bombs it carried were very sensitive; a single lucky shot and the Harrier would explode violently.
“Alpha flight, your targets are at the following location,” the AWACS said, and read out a series of coordinates. Eccleston nodded; the location was only five miles away from Basra. “Alpha-one is to engage, Alpha-others to wait for result.”
“Understood,” Eccleston said, and swooped over the battlefield. Even handling sluggishly, he found his target within minutes, a massive line of guns, spread out over the desert.
“Now that’s clever,” Alpha-two muttered. At least twice during the war, the counter-battery fire from the Army had triggered a chain reaction among the Soviet guns, destroying entire regiments with a single shell. The Soviet NKVD had been busy, installing so much fear that the guns were spread out… and the ammunition far to the rear.