Captain 's Bridge, INS Hood, Mumbai
Every so often, a Captain got orders that were a real pleasure to obey. This was one of them. A string of signals had arrived over the last few hours, all of them good. The first had told him that the orders to decommission and scrap Hood had been reversed. Then, a second set had instructed him to prepare his ship for sea, he was to take Hood to the United Kingdom and return her to the Royal Navy.
Apparently, the British were setting up a naval history center in Portsmouth and had requested that Hood be sold to them as the centerpiece. She'd be joining some other famous ships there, including Victory and Warrior. The request had come with a note from the Americans attached, stating that they would consider the donation of Hood to the new Naval History Center 'a friendly act'. They'd even offered one of their decommissioned battleships to India for breaking up so Indian industry wouldn't suffer from the loss of scrap steel.
Even better, he'd got permission to bring his wife Indira and their children along on the trip. He'd left Great Britain almost 20 year ago and had never been back since. It would be interesting to see what had become of the old country. By all accounts, Britain was recovering fast, the long years of privation following the war were fading away as prosperity returned. Idly, Ladone wondered what had happened to the family properties in England. He was the only surviving child, his brother and sister had both died in the war and he had heard nothing from the rest of the clan.
Still, he'd be able to show his wife his original country and give his children some idea of where the rest of their roots lay. They'd have a chance for good tour before they came back home. He had the money saved, Indian Navy salaries were far from princely but Indira came from a wealthy family and they had always had that to fall back on. He could go to a British pub again, see Trafalgar Square and the Tower of London where Halifax had been executed. And, he'd get a chance to have some sausages, the one thing he truly missed in India. Sometimes, Captain Jim Ladone had thought he would kill for a decent British sausage.
Petrograd, Russia
Brides always looked beautiful, they couldn't help it. The wedding dress had arrived safely and been altered to fit Klavdia Efremovna Kalugina. Now, she was standing next to Tony Evans in it. Tonight, a seamstress would adjust it again, and tomorrow, another bride would get to wear a proper wedding dress on her marriage day. Tony was in Marine Dress Blues and there was an honor guard for the couple. The decision to stay in Russia had been both hard and easy. Hard because he would be living in a strange country, easy because he'd be living there with Klavdia.
He'd already started a prospering business in Petrograd, it turned out that pizza was the perfect restaurant meal for a country that lacked money yet sought something exotic to take away the memory of two decades of privation. His restaurants in Petrograd were crowded and he'd be opening one in Moscow soon. To get the raw materials in from the countryside, he'd started a road transport business using surplus army trucks and that was prospering as well.
And he would be going home soon, for a visit, to introduce Klavdia to his home town and his family. Their children would be brought up as Kaluginas because there was nobody else in her family left to carry on the name but there were plenty of other Evans family members in South Carolina.
Their visit would coincide with the start of the deer-hunting season. In a state where the first day of deer-hunting season was a universal holiday, anybody who could shoot like Klavdia would be a local heroine within hours. Evans listened to the Eastern Orthodox wedding ceremony going on around him and decided he was a very fortunate man.
Ossetia, Georgia, Russia
A hundred kilometers to go, perhaps a little more. His column was still moving, his surviving army units on the outside, fighting off the attacks of Russian Army units, bandits and anything else that threatened, the civilians and supplies and everything that couldn't fight in the center. A whole country on the move, looking for sanctuary, looking for a place they could survive. Right in the middle of his column were his precious technicians, the ones with the expertise to design and build biological and chemical warfare production plants. They were his passport to sanctuary.
When he'd started, Model had found himself with a column of more than 70,000 people, twice as many as he'd expected. He had about half that number now, and that included some more that had joined him on the march out. The first hundred kilometers had been the worst, his attempt to divert Russian attention away from his break-out had failed. The Russian Sturmoviks, the Sukhois and the twin-engined Ilyushins, had slashed at his column day and night, ripping at it with their rockets and burning it with jellygas.
They'd made it to the mountains though, and in doing so traded one source of misery for another. The mountains had killed almost as many people as the Sturmoviks. Cold, rock falls, the impossibility of keeping the column properly screened on the narrow, twisting paths through the mountains. They'd made it through though, and debouched from the mountains just north of Tbilsi. Now, it was a straight march to the border with Iran.
The ground was smooth, the land rich and there was plenty of food. The Russian Frontal Aviation was the wrong side of the mountains and their Sturmoviks were out of range. Even better, word had spread from Iran, the column was protected by The Caliphate. As a result, the local people were helping them on their way south. They brought food, and medical attention and guides to show the best routes and avoid the worst traps. More importantly, they warned Model of any threats.
They were over the worst now. His people would survive. Despite the best efforts of the Russians, his people had survived. As he walked south, picking them up and laying them down, the age-old infantryman's step, Model laughed. He'd beaten the Russians again.
EPILOGUE
Ayuthia Road, Bangkok, Thailand - Six Months Later
Even at mid-day the roads were jammed and travel by car was a time-consuming process. Then again, there wasn't much choice. Still, the limousine had finally pulled away from the Palace, the agreements that had resolved the crisis, at last signed and in place. In the back, Sir Martyn Sharpe, Sir Eric Haohoa and the Ambassador relaxed, the strains of the last year lifted. The Ambassador opened the bar in the car and poured out drinks. Sir Martyn was looking out the window, enjoying the bustle of the city but Sir Eric was troubled. Eventually, he broke the companionable silence.
“What did it all mean Ambassador? What did we achieve? It seems so much effort, so much work, so many people killed and for what? A few small adjustments on a map? A few changes in the ways we do things?”
The Ambassador looked thoughtful. “On one level perhaps you are right. What we have achieved seems little perhaps. But things never are solved with a great flash and a magnificent stroke of genius. Only in novels does a wonderful achievement by the hero solve the problem and change everything for ever. It is rarely the case that a situation like this ends with an absolute victory. If we think on the implications of this, we can see why. If every such crisis was continued to an absolute end then they would be fought using absolute methods. We all have Germany to remind us of the terrible end that lies on that path.
“Instead, we resolve situations like this by increments. We agree that we can end a situation in a way that everybody can live with. We recognize a change in the balance of power by adjusting the outward appearance of that power. Changes are small, a little is achieved here, a little there. Some ground is lost here, a deadlock is the result there. And over the years, small things add up to a surge that cannot be stopped. History is bigger than any of us Sir Eric, the momentum of history is so great that one person can rarely make a great difference.