Young Serge never tired of listening to those tales on the long winter nights as the old warriors drank their vodka.
Alontov turned his head to regard his travelling companions, ten years from conception, a germ of an idea with no hope of official sanction to this, the eve of the rebirth of the Soviet Union. The four of them would seal the bargain made with their one-time bitter enemies and rivals for communist domination of the planet. None of the passengers would ever claim to be true communists; it was the regime rather than the politics that brought their Mother Russia its greatness. Corrupt, inept and flawed leadership that lacked foresight had brought the downfall of their beloved country from its place as equal first with America in the world order, to the humiliation of begging for hand-outs from those same Americans in order to feed its people. All that would change very soon now, from Alaska on the continental United States, to the English Channel and from the North Cape of Norway as far south as Gibraltar would become the new Soviet Union. If the Europeans needed persuading then the British Isles would be left a glowing cinder in the North Sea for a hundred years by way of example.
Alontov glanced along the aisle as the elder of the four; Anatoly Peridenko came into view. Making his way from the cabin crew station where he had been doing his lecherous best to persuade a striking blonde from St Petersburg of the career advantages in visiting his dacha. Peridenko ignored his own seat and sat down unbidden beside Alontov. Serge resisted the urge to lean slightly away from his fellow countryman; the former KGB chief had the knack of making one want to wash by the mere act of entering the same room. Alontov was no guileless romantic with fluff still on his chin, as a professional soldier he accepted that whenever possible his job was to engage his countries enemies without warning, but he would not shirk from the frontal assault against a prepared defence if the situation demanded it. Peridenko on the other hand was the archetypal 'snake in the grass', he would never contemplate confronting an enemy face to face, and it would always be from behind as they slept and then only after he had persuaded them he was a friend. Peridenko half turned in the seat to regard Alontov, he was aware of the others distaste of him but it mattered to him not a jot; as long as he was respected then he cared nothing for the emotions that engendered that respect.
"Have you had chance to study the latest intelligence predictions?" Alontov sighed to himself before replying
"Anatoly Peridenko, history itself gave coinage to the phrase 'a plan never survives first contact with the enemy'. You expend valuable time and resources attempting to guess at the West's moves on Day plus 9 when we have not yet gathered all the required pieces for our own opening gambit. I would much rather those same resources concentrate greater effort on assuring Day 1 happens as planned and less time gazing into teacups willing the future to appear.". Without any sign of concern over the censure Peridenko pressed the seat button to summon a flight attendant before replying. "Provided the assets we are certain of and the Chinese act as promised, the West and Asiatic governments will be too stunned and afraid to coordinate an effective response". He inclined his head away to admire the form of the approaching blonde attendant
"Do you think she is a natural blonde Serge?" he mused without expecting any reply.
A gentle wind, moving through the branches of tall Pine trees, has a way of making people relax. If the experience could be had on prescription, pharmaceutical companies would go out of business. Abroad this night in the heavily forested blocks at the western side of Sennybridge training area in Wales, are groups of men with no time nor inclination to stop to hug the rough trunks or otherwise ‘find themselves’.
Moving very slowly along a firebreak between tall pine trees are one such group, six figures well spread out and burdened down with full fighting order webbing and Bergen’s on their backs. Apart from the rear man who held an LSW, Light Support Weapon, the remainder was armed with SA80 assault rifles. Two more figures are knelt off to the side of their line of march, watching the proceedings through small light intensifiers. Although one wears the same two-tone camouflage cream on exposed skin surfaces and DPM, disruptive pattern material, combat jacket, trousers and boots. His only burdens are the tactical radio on his back, night sight and the white armbands that denote 'Umpire' on tactical exercises and a DS, 'Director of Students', on training courses in the British Army. The six soldiers he is 'Dee Essing' are all would-be infantry section commanders from various infantry regiments undergoing eighteen weeks of organised discomfort, physical and mental pressure, plus good old-fashioned general embuggerance to sort out the leaders from the led. In 'soldier speak' this course is known as 'Junior Brecon', viewed with trepidation by those yet to undergo it and pride by those who pass it and describe themselves as 'Brecon trained' to lesser martial mortals. Company Sergeant Major Colin Probert was accompanied by a young man clad in a camouflage uniform of a different style. Senior Lieutenant of Paratroops Nikoli Bordenko was his given name and title, although he was called something very different by the Brits, was quite enjoying his attachment to the British Army’s School of Infantry. In all, thirty soldiers, sailors and airmen from his homeland were at this moment ‘seeing how the other half lived’, with NATO armies. Nikoli considered himself fortunate to have been chosen, although ideally he would have preferred an American facility. Should that have transpired he would have found some way of visiting California and discover if it were true that residents of that State lived at the beach, were independently wealthy, wore only revealing designer clothes in the dubbed versions of ‘The OC’ he had once watched with interest. As it was, the local Welsh girls may have lacked suntans and Ferrari’s but their natural looks and sense of fun had charmed his trousers off, in fact all his clothes off, on two occasions thus far. Outings to the unpronounceable Tafarn-y-Cwm Inn and Abercamlais Arms would have been more memorable had he not imbibed quite so much of the local ale.
The dark eyed, good-looking Russian Paratrooper with his lilting accent had proved to be a magnet to the local girls.
Nikoli had become known by all the instructors and staff as ‘The Fanny Magnet from Moscow’ which quickly became more simply ‘Fanny M’.
CSM Probert checked that the radio was on 'whisper' mode, adjusted the hands-free ‘mike’ in front of his mouth and depressed the harness switch on his chest.
"You there, Oz?" tucked in to a tall patch of ferns Stevie Osgood the only other Coldstream Guardsman amongst the instructors of the School of Infantry, was 'DS' for tonight's opposition. Thirty-seven would-be platoon sergeants undergoing 'Senior Brecon' dug into the hard rocky ground a few hundred yards from the military road junction known as Dixie's Corner.
"No, I'm getting a BJ down the town… 'Course I'm here". Colin grinned into the mike, "They should be hitting the first trip flare in the next 5 minutes". Earlier Oz had supervised the placement of several trip flares along the planned route Colin's recce patrol would take. Normally the placement of trip flares so far out from a position would only be done for planned ambushes on likely approaches, but the ambushers would manually trigger those. This morning however it was to see if the students were switched on. They were expected to find the first wire stretched across the firebreak where it met a track, but Oz had not attached a flare pot to it, the flare was on the end of a second trip wire placed 12" behind and 6" lower than the first.