Near Warsaw, Poland
The Polish countryside scrolled past as the line of vehicles, jeeps, trucks, and three CADS vehicles, moved along the country road, heading well away from any civilisation. They passed a handful of farmers and traders on the way to their deployment zone, using the SATNAV system to ensure that they found the correct location within Poland. For the common soldiers, there was little to do, but wait in the trucks; some talking, some catching up on their sleep… a handful playing with electronic toys.
“It’s only a couple of kilometres further,” Captain Jacob Anastazy said. The Polish liaison officer, there to help the British soldiers find their way around the country and smooth out any difficulties that they might encounter with Polish citizens, looked confident. There hadn’t been any real difficulties; the only problem they had encountered had been an impromptu victory parade when they had passed through a small town. “This area is pretty much deserted.”
“Good,” Captain Stuart Robinson said. He was one of the lucky handful who got to ride in a jeep; the other soldiers mainly had to sit in the trucks. It was better, he supposed, than marching all the way from Germany to Poland, but not by much. The trucks had been designed for dozens of different purposes, including both heavy transport and prisoner transfer and it showed. Comfort had never been on the agenda. “We can do without a friendly fire incident.”
It was easy to believe that they were at war, looking around them; the area was almost deserted and there were no sign of any other military force, hostile or friendly. EUROFOR had deployed the equivalent of two divisions to Poland, but they were spread out to provide hasty reactions to any Russian cross-border raid into the refugee camps in eastern Poland. From what Anastazy had said, some of the Poles would be quite happy to allow the Russians to destroy the camps; the refugees were either competing for Polish jobs or merely a drain on Polish resources. The Polish army was deployed near the border, at least, some of it was; European pressure and economic constraints had prevented the Poles from a full mobilisation.
They passed a handful of Polish tourists, who gaped at the military convoy as it passed by, before being left alone again. Anastazy had admitted that there were fewer cars in Poland these days; Poland was already too dependent on the Russians for energy supplies and had been rationing fuel for nearly a decade. Warsaw and the other major cities had a new system of electric trams that used power from the European-designed nuclear power plant ten kilometres from the city… and closer to Robinson’s position than he could have liked. He had grown up near Torness Nuclear Power Plant, but the thought of being near a nuclear plant in a weapons free zone chilled him.
His mind slipped back to the base at Rheindahlen Military Complex, Germany. The EUROFOR briefer had made them work for their supper, both ensuring that his company had the required number of German, French, Polish and Spanish-speaking soldiers, and ensuring that he understood the ROE. The ROE were basically simple; he was not to engage any targets unless his command was either under attack, or had orders to engage targets. He was grimly aware that his unit would be out on a limb if there were serious problems; the sixty men of his company would be isolated from the remainder of the regiment.
“Bastards,” he muttered, as he checked his terminal. The Americans had designed the system and EUROFOR command had fallen in love with it, even though every soldier worthy of the name would have preferred more tanks and guns. It was communicator, computer and GPS system all in one, allowing him to accept orders from Brussels without having to go through the British command system. The other soldiers had shared his disdain; one French Captain had rudely remarked that it meant that they couldn’t do anything without asking permission first. He had been a paratrooper, much to Robinson’s amusement; were they going to be parachuting EUROFOR into its positions? A French armoured or infantry division would be much more useful.
“Russian bastards,” Anastazy agreed. His voice was disdainful; the Poles both hated and feared the Russians, not entirely without reason. The Polish Government had been horrified at the restrictive rules of engagement, which would almost certainly allow the Russians first shot if they were plotting something, but the European Defence Commission had stuck to their guns. “Nearly there…”
They came around a corner and reached a small hill. Someone had been busy; there were signs everywhere informing the Polish public and tourists that the entire area was off-limits. He inspected it quickly as the jeep drove around the hill; they could set up the radar on the hill, and then deploy the other soldiers around the hill, providing protection for the CADS units.
He glanced over at Anastazy. “How large an area have you cleared?”
“Around a kilometre, centred on the hill,” Anastazy said. “We didn’t want to risk an accident where one of your men shoots a farmer.”
Robinson nodded. Accidents happened and some of them had nightmarish consequences. He tapped a command into his terminal and then shouted at the driver to halt the jeep, bringing them to a halt just outside a fallow field. It would make an ideal place for the tents, he decided; it would spare them the horrors of Russian-built barracks. The trucks came to a halt behind him and the soldiers spilled out, helped along by shouts from the Sergeants and Corporals. Robinson was proud of them; some of them might have been bastards, but they were good men to have behind you in a firefight. Most of them had seen combat before.
“All present and correct, sir,” Sergeant Ronald Inglehart reported. Despite his name, he was as black as the night, a Jamaican who had enlisted in the British Army and served for several years as an NCO. He was the toughest son of a bitch that Robinson had ever met, always ready for a fight — and yet he was also one of the kindest men imaginable to his old mother. “No desertions to the fleshpots at all!”
Robinson had to smile. “Secure the area, and then set up the tents and field kitchen in that field,” he said. The orders, he was sure, were unnecessary; Inglehart would have done everything without a young Captain teaching his grandmother to suck eggs, but they had to be given. “I’ll deal with the CADS.”
The CADS themselves looked like something out of Captain Scarlet; a short squat set of lorries, carrying four missiles on their roofs. He'd seen the videos; the CADS could engage four different targets at the same time, reload, and engage four more, until they ran out of missiles. Each truck carried twenty-four missiles; one of the supply lorries carried a complete set of replacements for all three of the units. He had heard that the RAF, upon attempting to penetrate an area defended by a single CADS unit, had lost five Tornados to their fire. It had all been simulated, of course, but it suggested that the company would have some protection from aerial attack.
Lieutenant Benjamin Matthews saluted as Robinson came up. He hadn’t been idle while Robinson had been deploying the company; his crew had all dismounted and were running basic systems checks. There were twelve of them, four of them women, something that might cause problems later. The Company had seven women, but all of them were very definitely off-limits; the CADS crewers might be courted by bored and horny soldiers. Robinson made a mental note to consult with Anastazy about nearby brothels; the mental state of the company had to be treated with care.
“We are ready to deploy on your command,” Matthews informed him. Technically, Matthews wasn't in the same chain of command, but Major-General McLachlan had been very clear on the subject. Matthews would serve under Robinson as long as they were guarding the godforsaken hill. “One of the missiles developed a fault, but the others all read out as working fine.”