The Russians had slowly secured their grip over Kent and the southeast of England, expanding their control and making it much harder for Special Forces to operate, even through the SAS was working wonders in delaying tactics. Their bases had expanded and as they had brought a port back into service, so had their forces; there was no way that their supply lines could be interdicted any longer. The handful of surviving Royal Navy units had been pulled back to take part in the final evacuation, but the Russians were still pressing at them; Langford knew that more ships would be lost before it was all over.
He could have gone on one of the ships, he supposed; the thought had been tempting, even though it would have been the coward’s way out. He could make it to one of the ships even if the battle was lost, but he had made up his mind; whatever happened, he would face it in the country he had become leader of, so unexpectedly. He had made his plans; all that remained was to carry them out and remain strong.
It wouldn’t be long now.
“Send the general signal to all men,” he said. “Tell them… to fight like mad bastards and give them hell.”
The Russian tankers peered nervously out at the English countryside as they advanced, watching out for ambushes, mines, or other surprises that the British might have left in their path. They had learned to be careful in Chechnya, but the British had a few surprises of their own, including a handful of mines that looked harmless, or devices that somehow burned incredibly hot and burned through heavy armour as if it was nothing more than plastic. The Americans had supplied it, some of the tankers whispered, as they drove onwards towards the British lines. One day, perhaps there would be a chance to settle scores with them as well.
High overhead, the first flight of Russian bombers headed west, their targets already preset and designated for attention. Their bomb bays had been loaded with heavy bombs; they now broke into attack runs and headed towards the British positions. Russian spotters and penal soldiers, volunteers trying to work weeks off their sentences, had penetrated the British positions and reported back; many of them were caught and killed, but others survived long enough to warn the Russian pilots of new targets. The bombs began to fall…
Further back, Russian artillery was already beginning to fire, targeting the British lines and the dug-in infantry in towns and villages. Flames spread rapidly as the soldiers drove for cover, the work of centuries being shattered by Russian guns as the Russians advanced; they braced themselves and crawled forward to the newer trenches they had dug to await the Russian ground forces. The British prepared themselves as best as they could for the final battle, carefully concealed tanks and guns becoming active and waiting for targets. Everything depended upon holding the line.
“We don’t fall back,” Colonel Stuart Robinson said, as the Company dug in and prepared to face the Russian attack. This time, they knew that they would be attacked; this time, it would be different from any number of skirmishes right across the continent. “Whatever happens, we don’t fall back.”
“Understood,” Sergeant Ronald Inglehart said. He barked orders to the men holding the trench system; hundreds of man-hours had gone into preparing it as a deadly and well-hidden surprise for the Russians. The noise of Russian guns was getting louder; the handful of British guns would remain in reserve until they had targets right where they wanted them. The Russians would have difficulty assaulting their position with tanks; they would have to come face to face with the British soldiers as they fought. “We will hold.”
Robinson touched the medal he wore on his chest. The Army had done the best it could for wounded soldiers, including shipping many of them to heavily-defended Iceland under American care, but he knew that escape was probably impossible. He had asked Hazel to take the opportunity of a shot on an evacuation ship, but she had refused; how could she leave him? She was safe, for the moment, but it still worried him; what would the Russians do to her if they caught her? Reports said that the Russians cracked down hard on unsanctioned atrocities, and they had certainly captured more than a few penal soldiers who had been arrested for rape, but Hazel had thrown a spanner into their plans. The Russians carried grudges; the very war itself was proof of that.
“Yes,” he agreed. He peered through the camouflage down towards where the Russians would have to appear when they attacked. Everyone was certain that the Russians would come to confront the remains of the mobile British Army, the remaining force left on Britain itself; the bombers that had passed overhead and attacked Dorking were proof enough that the planners had called that one correctly. They could see the fires raging upwards from their distance; he didn’t want to think about what could happen if the Russians turned those firebombs on civilians. If the line broke, the British civilian population would be at the mercy of the Russians. “We will not break.”
The sound of high explosives was getting closer as the first of the Russians appeared, moving carefully forward and looking for traps. By now, they all knew how to spot a penal soldier from the slumped shoulders, the absence of weapons or rank insignia, and the suicidal actions. The Russian was crawling forward, completely unarmed; Robinson felt a moment of sympathy before hardening his heart and muttering a command for the sniper to take the Russian down. The Russian twitched once and lay still; the heat of the air seemed to suppress any noise he might have made, or perhaps it was the noise of the battle in the far distance that was concealing his cries. Other Russians appeared, crawling forwards; they were armed and fired as they slipped from cover to cover, hunting for the British sniper who had killed their former colleague.
They don’t know we’re all here, Robinson realised. The Russians clearly thought that they were dealing with a lone SAS sniper, like the one who had killed a Russian General two nights ago when the idiot had gone driving through barely-secured territory; their tactics were designed to beat the sniper out of hiding, not assault a dug-in infantry force. He muttered commands to Inglehart, who passed them along the line; hold your fire and wait.
The Russians came closer and closer, their bullets cracking through the air well above the heads of his men, the universe shrinking to the point where it held only the Russian company and the British company, men who were about to kill and be killed. Robinson felt deadly calm as he took aim, considering his targets carefully; a green-clad Russian officer, waving his men on with one hand, seemed the best possible choice. He used hand signals himself, issuing orders to the mortar crews; those weapons, at least, they had plenty of rounds to fire at the Russians. Time ticked by…
“Fire,” he shouted, and fired down at the Russian. He had no business in the line of fire himself, but he was damned if he was abandoning his men now, and it was a chance to hit back for all Hazel had suffered since he had gone off to war. It seemed a dream now; the universe replaced by endless war as Russians were caught in the stream of bullets, or threw themselves to the ground as British firepower poured onto their locations. The dull thumping of mortars could be heard as the soldiers fired the antipersonnel rounds into the Russian positions, slaughtering hundreds of Russians; the remainder scattered back and returned fire as best as they could. The British mowed them down mercilessly.
Robinson threw his head back. “Plaza-toro,” he shouted, words that would hopefully mean nothing to the Russians. “Plaza-toro!”