“There was little choice,” President Aleksandr Sergeyevich Nekrasov. The Russian President leaned forward, his face steeped with gravity; both men had protested loudly at his decision to visit Brussels. If the British found out about it in time, they might decide that the target was worth expending their remaining cruise missiles on an assassination attempt. The President was the one man Russia could not afford to lose. Without him, the new world order might totter… it might even fall. “We could not allow our supply lines to be limited even for a moment.”
Shalenko nodded grimly. In many ways, the Russian control over France and parts of Germany had been an illusion, in the early days. The supply lines had been far too long, and even if most of the fight had gone out of the French, and their Arab enemies, the Russians had been running a serious risk. The plan hadn’t worked perfectly, but in the end… it had worked well enough. It was Spain that might prove a later problem; the multi-sided war raging there was sending thousands of refugees into France, all of whom had to be registered and put to work. Even a month after the Battle of Lorraine, the Russian grip on some parts of France was weaker than he would like, and there were entire armies lost somewhere within the mountains of Scandinavia. They dared not have their supply line disrupted… and they dared not create an insurgency in their rear; for the first time, Shalenko understood the problems that had faced European politicians since the first wave of immigration to Europe.
“There are even signs that large parts of the population is happier under us for the moment,” Rybak pressed, taking his advantage and running with it. “They have law and order on their streets, the Muslims make scapegoats for all their ills… and they’re actually stripped of red tape, taxes and all the nonsense that the European Union created to limit productivity. Many of the older ones were even sick of the protesters and their protests…”
“Those who haven’t lost people to your… men,” Shalenko injected.
“And they’re quite happy to help us,” Rybak continued. “The teams examining the European technical base and working on using it for our own advantage are working fairly quickly and developing other possibilities from it for later use. The Americans snatched the ESA launching base in South America — wisely, as we had hoped that one of our allies there would pick up on it — but the remainder survived fairly intact. Large wages, perks and rewards… they should be back to full productivity soon.”
He paused; the President invited him to continue with a raised eyebrow. “Italy took the worst damage and the worst bloodshed; bloodshed by native Italians, as opposed to immigrants and Arab soldiers,” Rybak said. Shalenko smiled thinly; the Algerians and Libyans had probably worked out that they had been screwed by now, but what were they going to do about it? Complain to the Americans? The United Nations? “By the time we got there, the Pope was thinking about committing suicide to avoid falling into the hands of one faction or another; our paratroopers saved his life and made him our prisoner. His support was invaluable, but Italy will be the poorest of the new territories for a long time. In time, however, they will be back to full productivity as well.”
“Good,” Nekrasov said shortly. He shared a thin smile with Shalenko; both men knew that the President’s judgement about the Americans and the United Nations had been correct. The Americans had furiously denounced the invasion, but they had limited themselves to seizing Iceland and trying to send some supplies to the British, both expected. Rumour had it that the Canadians were sending some of the Eurofighters they had purchased from Europe to the British, but Shalenko doubted that that would get very far; the Canadians had their own worries about Russia. “That brings us to the final issue; Operation Morskoi Lev.”
Shalenko smiled. He had chosen the name himself. He felt that it suited. “We have continued air raids against the British bases and naval facilities since we drove them into the sea at Ostend,” he said. They had also put thousands of Arabic men to work as forced labour, clearing up the damage caused by heavy fighting right across the region, as well as moving out the population. Most of the citizens now had identity cards; unsurprisingly, the process had slowed slightly as the Russians had found themselves working on other problems. The one attempt by the Arabs to resist had been treated with deadly force; the survivors learned the lesson and worked. Besides, they had been promised access to their womenfolk if they worked hard. “The results have been quite promising.”
He tapped the display in the bunker, hoping again that the British had no idea where it was; it was a tempting target without Nekrasov’s presence. “The largest force the British have deployed against us was twelve aircraft at a time; their numbers have been falling sharply to the point that several of our probes and raids were completely unopposed. We focused our efforts on the bases they were using to resupply their aircraft and forced them to fight; they must be running out of energy by now. They’re definitely conserving advanced weapons; only a handful of missiles were fired over the last week.”
“Perhaps they’ve run out,” Rybak said. “They can hardly have an unlimited supply, even with American help… and the Americans can’t have an unlimited supply either.”
Shalenko scowled. One thing they hadn’t anticipated had been the Americans taking over security duties for the Falklands; they had hoped that the British would either be challenged by the Argentines, forcing them into a desperate and futile struggle against superior forces, or pull out their task force and allow the Argentines to take over the Falklands without a fight. The Americans had told the Argentines flatly that the Falklands were under their protection and any attempt to alter the balance of power would be severely punished. The presence of a large American carrier nearby added teeth to the threat; the Argentines had reluctantly backed off, for the time being.
“Wishful thinking,” he said, dismissing the hope. “If they know what we’re planning, they will save everything for the most dangerous part of any landing operation, the moment when the troops are being unloaded. Once they are certain that we are not bluffing, they will throw everything they have into the battle, where it will be destroyed, terminating the RAF once and for all. Our air supremacy will ensure that the landing zones remain secure, and then we will probe up towards London. At some point, we will meet the remainder of the British Army… and crush it.”
He had given serious thought to landing elsewhere; Rybak put his thoughts into words. “Should we not attempt to avoid a major battle until we have a large force on the ground?”
“I thought about that,” Shalenko admitted. The plan had been hashed over, time and time again, stripped out as many of the variables as possible. There would be surprises — no campaign was ever fought without surprises — but he hoped that most of them would be limited. “The problem is that we have to crush the British Army; the British will have had time to burn records and destroy bases and generally make it impossible for us to be sure who has military experience, or not. If we can kill them all, or at least catch them quickly, then we won’t have to worry about an insurgency later.”
Rybak smiled coldly. The different Russian services had watched the American struggles in Iraq and later Iran with the greatest of interest, leaning different lessons for different services. The army had learned about tanks that could be used for fighting insurgents, the navy had learned about cruise missiles, the air force had learned about heavy bombing… and the FSB had learned how much trouble former soldiers could cause. The remaining soldiers in Europe, surrendered or captured, would be sent to Siberia; let them work there or die.