Chapter Forty-Six: Operation Morskoi Lev, Take One
The hour has come; kill the Hun.
Battlezone, English Channel
“I think that this is it,” the coordinator said. Langford peered over her shoulder as the radar screen began to fill up with detailed information; there were over a thousand aircraft rising into the air over Europe, many of them staggering under the weight of heavy bomb loads. The two AWACS that the Americans had loaned, added to the two that the British had deployed on their own, were picking apart the Russian formation. “That’s an order of magnitude larger than any previous raid.”
Langford nodded grimly. The Russians had worked the RAF over pretty hard; unlike Hitler, they had known beforehand that the key to actually winning was air supremacy, if not complete air dominance. They had been able to rotate their pilots through the war zone; Langford and his people hadn’t had anything like the same luxury. Their pilots were exhausted; over the last week, they had lost several planes a day, including some of their most modern aircraft.
The American supplies had helped, but they hadn’t been enough; the air bridge between Britain and America had been thin and the Russians had broken it more than once. The Americans had been careful to avoid something that would directly threaten the Russians; Langford would have given anything for the 8th Air Force or another American formation just to give the RAF a breather, but that was impossible. The Russians had ground down the RAF… and now they would be coming to finish the job.
“Send the alert down the chain,” he ordered. The officers on the ground could pull downloads from the AWACS, but they would need to have the formal warning, just to put all of the emergency plans into operation. “Tell them that I am declaring a formal Cromwell Alert status and that they are to respond and report their positions.”
“Yes, sir,” the operator said. She paused. “Major Yuppie is calling you on the secure line.”
Langford took the handset. “Major,” he said. “I take it that you are seeing what we’re seeing?”
“Of course,” Erica said. There was a hint of relief in her voice; the waiting, at least, was over. “Sir, I know that we have discussed this before, but…”
Langford shook his head. “No,” he said. She couldn’t see him, of course; there hadn’t been the time to create a proper video link for the field headquarters. “One way or the other, I have to make the stand with the army.”
Erica snorted, but she didn’t press the issue any further. She had wanted him to remain in the CJHQ, exercising command from well behind the lines, so that he could escape with the evacuation ships if it was necessary. Langford had put his foot down; the government-in-exile would be far better operated by a politician, if it came to that. The Ambassador and Foreign Secretary would take the oath as Prime Minister in front of the King; the Royal Family themselves were in Canada. Langford hated the thought of them running out on the country, but again… they couldn’t be allowed to fall into Russian hands. The Pope had fallen into Russian hands and he now broadcast from the remains of the Vatican, praising the Russians in one breath and demanding a new crusade against the Muslims in a second. He hated to think what could happen if he fell into enemy hands; he had already determined that whatever happened, he would never allow himself to be taken alive.
“Yes, sir,” she said, finally. Langford was watching the display; the force of Russian fighters was starting to advance, zooming ahead of the bombers and heavy transports that had to be carrying parachutists and other surprises. The British had learned that the Russians loved paratrooper assaults; every airport in the entire south-east of England, and most of the other airports in the country, had been rigged with unpleasant surprises. They were short on men, materials, and many other things, but they weren’t out of tricks yet. “The Royal Navy is preparing to move in and reach engagement range.”
Langford scowled. He hadn’t liked that part of the plan; it would cost them, heavily, even if it worked. The Americans hadn’t been able to supply many cruise missiles to replace the ones that had been fired off during the early days of the war; the remaining fifteen surface combatants of the Royal Navy in home waters would be seriously disadvantaged, the more so because he could spare them no air cover. They would be operating at the limits of their range… and as for the ships from the Falklands, it would still be a week before they were in range. He wasn’t convinced that they could do anything, anyway; the Russian control of the air would be absolute by that time.
“Good,” he said finally. The submarines had been tasked with interdicting the Russian transports, something that would be difficult with the Royal Navy so badly overstretched and down to eight nuclear submarines. There were two more with Admiral Wilkinson, but they couldn’t reach Britain in time to help. The Royal Navy, he suspected, was about to fight its last battle. “And the RAF?”
“Fighters are scrambling now,” Erica said. “Operation Mousetrap has been activated and the American weapons are in place. If we can use it, we might just have a chance to limit the number of bombs and commandos dropped on our soil.”
Langford tried hard to feel optimistic. They’d caught and captured several dozen Russians as they had attempted to launch more terrorist attacks, or killed others who refused to surrender, but there had been brutal fire-fights breaking out all along the defence line as Russian commandos had been slipped onto the shore and sent to wreak havoc and force the soldiers to become nervous in their trenches. No one knew how many Russians might have successfully made it into Britain undetected; a handful had escaped one of the refugee camps, having managed to sneak onboard a refugee ship.
“Good,” he said again. What else could he have said? The pattern on the display was becoming more and more ominous all the time; the Russian fighters were streaking forward, hoping to force the RAF into a decisive battle. “And the evacuation?”
It had seemed as if everyone in Britain had wanted to flee the Russians; after CNN had broadcast some of the reports from occupied Europe, it was hard to blame them. The ports had been crammed with people wanting to flee, to get away somewhere, anywhere; there had even been more rioting as the fate of European Muslims under the Russians became clear. Langford had had to quell some of the riots with extreme force and ignore others; the only priority was to fight the final battle. If they could smash the Russian Army when it landed…
“The personnel marked for evacuation have been dispatched to the ports,” Erica assured him. They had given priority to the relatives of serving soldiers and policemen; the police, in particular, had done wonderful work. There was something of the old determination and ethos left in them after all; Langford only wished that it hadn’t taken a war and a threatened invasion to bring it to the fore. A handful of technical experts had been dispatched as well; the Americans had been insistent, once they had realised that the Russians were starting the long process of renovating the European technical base and using it for their own benefit. “Everything will be handled smoothly.”
“I hope you’re right,” Langford said. The American satellite data was buzzing up new warnings; the Russian transport fleet had set out to sea and Russian missiles were being launched towards targets on the ground. “I’ll see you again soon.”