SPETSNAZ – The Week Of The Chameleons

[James G]

A completed story of mine written in 2017. Enjoy.



The First Day


Ordinary People

Mrs. Eleanor Dickenson lived in the village of Charlton outside of Andover in Hampshire with her husband. Mr. Michael Dickenson was also Inspector Dickenson of the Hampshire Police whose tasking was in the public order role for the constabulary and he commuted everyday down to Winchester. His wife Eleanor worked closer to home in Andover for the National Health Service.

The two of them were a recently married couple with the widower Michael having met the younger Eleanor through a lonely-hearts column and the two of them having found love. Michael and Eleanor were well-known within Charlton among the villagers with Michael having told them the story of their love with smiles all round. The upstanding citizen who was Michael had not long ago moved to Charlton himself from out of Winchester following the loss of his first wife and he was regarded well among the locals for the links he established within the village. The policeman was originally from Rhodesia – excuse me, they call it Zimbabwe now – and had a pleasant disposition. He took his new wife hiking often out into the countryside and the two of them also joined community groups. As to Eleanor, she was a little less socially active than her husband – she was a little shy, the villagers would say – yet she was always polite and friendly. From London, Eleanor was, and she was a busy lady putting in many hours with her administrative role within the NHS as well as spending her free time with her husband walking & camping out across Salisbury Plain, the North Wessex Downs and also The New Forest. The two of them had recently tried their hand at sailing and boating too – very outdoors people, they were – down on the coast of Dorset.

They were upstanding members of the community. Both were seen as responsible people who worked hard and also enjoyed themselves. They had no children yet though the villagers were expecting them to naturally have some. Each worked long hours and travelled a lot in respectable positions. No one had any reason to suspect that they were not who they said they were in being ordinary people.


It was at twenty-five minutes to six early on this June morning when Eleanor reversed her car off the drive of the Dickenson’s home and set out from home. She left the village, which was located just north of Andover, and drove westwards along a country road that she knew well rather than going into the town. The turnoff for the villages of Penton Grafton first and then Weyhill Bottom were passed by and she came up to the junction with the big Andover Road. There was a roadblock already in-place, far earlier than she expected it to be.

“Yob tvoyu mat” Sitting inside her car alone, Eleanor swore aloud in her native Russian.

The policemen and army cadets outside couldn’t hear her though she quickly admonished herself in silence for the outburst. Everything that she had been taught told her that such an outburst of anger and frustration was a certain way to be caught. She knew that. Yet… she had sworn like she had without thinking. When she stubbed her toe, she swore in English. When she dropped a glass, she swore in English. When an arrogant co-worker would say something offensive to her, she swore in English. However, this morning, it was Russian that she used.

Eleanor Dickenson wasn’t born in London like her birth certificate said; she was born in Izhevsk inside the Soviet Union. She had grown up abroad, in Canada and South Africa as the official story said; yet to Soviet diplomats abroad not British ones. She did have children and she wasn’t childless like she was supposed to be; her daughter waited at home for her in the Soviet Union. She already had a husband back home; her marriage here to the policeman was pretty damn far from her first. Her name wasn’t Eleanor Dickenson either: she was born as Ekaterina Mikhailovna Belyakova.

Without doing anything dramatic, Eleanor – Ekaterina – drove up to the roadblock and then slowed down while wearing beaming a wide smile. It was ten minutes to six o’clock and these men were out here early. None of this was supposed to happen until the hour mark yet these men looked like they had already been here for some time, maybe having already have stopped a car or two already. A policeman came towards the driver’s side. Eleanor wound down the window while also making herself aware of the others nearby. There was another policeman and a trio of teenage cadets. None had any weapons visible.

“Good morning.” Eleanor kept her smile though hoped to portray curiosity as well: anything but concern.

“Ma’am, the road is closed.” A sympathetic shake of the head came from the policeman as he knelt down to talk through the open window. “You’ll have to turn around and head back to where you came.” A shrug of the shoulders to say that it wasn’t his fault. “I’m sorry.”

“I have to get to Ludgershall.” Eleanor lend across to her handbag that was in the foot-well on the front passenger’s side. She reached in for what she needed while observing the policeman out of the corner of her eye. She didn’t flinch nor seem at all concerned. She could easily have removed a pistol, shot him, stepped out of the car, shot the other one and watched the teenagers run for their lives.

It would have been so easy.

She handed over to the policeman what would get her past the roadblock. The documents and the identification badge would work just as well as a pistol.

“I’ll need to check these out, Ma’am.” He took them and stepped back while looking at the identification she had given him for the military garrison up the road at Ludgershall. “Say… your husband isn’t Inspector Dickenson, is he?”

Eleanor nodded. “Yes, he is.”

“He’s a good man.” There was genuine appreciation there. “I’ll still have to check these.”

“Go ahead.”


The policeman was on his radio. The other one came over to him and they exchanged words with each other. The second one then approached the car and walked around it in a circle with his eyes everywhere. What he was hoping to see, Eleanor didn’t know. Maybe he didn’t know either?

These policemen would have been given the order to come out here overnight. Across Britain, where Eleanor had come to be the wife of a fellow officer like herself serving with the GRU after his first wife as unexpectedly died, Transition to War (TtW) had gone into effect… well, it was meant to officially start at six o’clock. These policemen and the trio of teenagers – where was someone to look after them? – had started early. TtW meant roadblocks like this alongside so many other things all across this country where she and her husband had immersed themselves. The roadblocks were meant to do many things, including stopping spies for Soviet military intelligence – GRU – such as herself from moving about the country that had just gone on war-footing.

A woman whose husband was a senior local policeman who had the paperwork to go up to a nearby military base just wasn’t who they were looking for though. They were doing their job, but there was no great effort in it. Back home in her country, at the very least she would be out of the car and it would be searched. Not here.

The first policeman came back.

“Sorry for the delay, Ma’am. Drive on, you’ll find the road empty all the way up to the garrison there.”

“Thank you.”

Eleanor’s training made her say that in response. One part of her mind brought forth the mental response ‘Spasibo’ yet another part reminded her to say ‘thank you’. When you live a lie, you run with the lie almost all of the time. Apart from those few, isolated moments, where you slip up.

The car was started and Eleanor went past the roadblock. She turned onto the main road and went up towards where the British Army’s base at Ludgershall was. Her civilian role with the NHS had a dual position under TtW, the reason why the job for her had been arranged. In Andover during peacetime she dealt with mind-numbing details to do with the distribution of medical equipment and supplies through the south of England for the NHS. Should the nation ever start preparing to go to war in an organised fashion, where there was a transition phase as there was now, then Eleanor would be helping to assist the military and their Royal Army Medical Services in the same manner as she did in peacetime for the NHS. War casualties would be returning home and there would be a need for extra manpower in getting what was needed to help them, especially on the support side of things. Ludgershall was a good place to operate from as it was centrally-located and Eleanor would be needed to travel all across the region as well, through Hampshire and into neighbouring Wiltshire and Berkshire, to do her job from there. Naturally, there would be other things, she would be doing as well… helping to assist men from the GRU’s special forces – the Spetsnaz – when they were here and making use of the places and supplies hidden throughout the countryside where she and Michael had many times been busy setting up.

They would be chameleons like she and her husband were. Those men who had already arrived would be busy with all sorts of disguises to keep them out of danger as they caused that to others. The whole area was full of important military facilities to which Ludgershall paled into insignificance when compared to Boscombe Down, Aldermaston and Greenham Common.

Soon enough, Eleanor reached Ludgershall. It was past the hour now and the country around her was waking up to find that it was formally in a wartime state. She was stopped outside the main gate that was manned by an armed guard force who did a proper though polite formal check on her person and her vehicle. They didn’t find a gun hidden on her nor any form of radio or anything else proscribed. She was here to help. Other civilians were turning up just like she was. They all had good, noble intentions.

She didn’t.



Dispersion

Transition to War meant a lot more than roadblocks.

Britain took the step into overt preparations for war following covert actions over the past week when an international diplomatic crisis that quickly got worse with every passing day began. No longer were things being done in secret, now they were out in the open. Mobilisation commenced with pre-warned reserve military personnel now being recalled to active duty. Regular military forces were given the word to begin movement overseas from the holding points that they were at. Restrictions went into place across the country upon movements and communications. Schools were closed and hospitals cleared of patients. Arrests began to be made by the security services and the government was dispersed.

The political decision had been made that war was now inevitable and no longer could TtW be delayed. The concern for some days had been that to overreact would be immensely damaging to the country as a whole. Then, there had come events yesterday on the Continent. It was decided that TtW had to start today. Diplomacy was no longer going to stop the coming war and the fight which would be World War Three was fast approaching. Therefore, as much as possible, Britain had to be ready for that.


The MOD maintained offices within the town of Bath. Those were for administrative staff dealing with peacetime procurement in addition to payment processing for external contractors. They were anonymous and (hopefully) not on high upon Soviet targeting lists for military attack to commence against them, or Bath either. Lucy Hunt had arrived yesterday from London with many other staff from MI-5 to join military officers who had established themselves here with the task of combatting the Soviet Spetsnaz threat to the nation on a regional basis. Spooks such as herself had left London when the government had; politicians had gone to bunkers, she was here. There were two dozen plus spooks including Lucy who were at the offices in Bath’s Foxhill, all dispersed away from peacetime, fixed locations giving freedom to operate in a wartime environment.

There was a briefing underway this morning for those present – in uniform and not – to bring everyone here up to speed. Lucy was already aware of the overall situation but was still present because she was told to be here and there certainly would have been last-minute developments too. There was a whispered comment made as Lucy came into the meeting room from one of the military officers to another that she overheard – ‘who’s the bit of skirt?’ – yet she did her best to ignore that and sat down among everyone else. She has just as much reason to be here as everyone else: she was hardly a ‘bit of skirt’.

Aaron Castle, someone Lucy knew well, was conducting that summary of what they were all here to do. “Well… it looks like everyone is here, so I’ll begin.

Unless any of you have just returned from a long voyage to Mars, you’ll know the situation. Transition to War went into effect an hour ago at six a.m. For a lot of people, the world will seem to have gone mad. War is coming though: conventional, thermonuclear or a bit of both and the country is getting ready for that. The decision has been finally made after being put off for what really has been too long. Regardless of the delay, the process is underway. That’s outside these four walls and operating among the restrictions in-place is where we’ll be. It comes with mobilisation too and a deployment off to Germany, Norway or wherever else for a lot of men – and some lasses too – ready to go fight there on the Continent.

Our battles will be here, across southern and southwestern England.

There is firm intelligence, confirmed through various sources, that there are Spetsnaz already ashore in Britain or on their way here. All of you have been briefed before on these supposed supermen and I hope you’ve all been re-reading your briefing material on this threat. Believe me, it is real. We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t. There are Soviet special forces soldiers tasked to operate on British soil. There are those we believe will be acting in the terrorist role – there has been an incident up in Liverpool overnight and another one in South London appears to have been foiled – and others who will be ready to conduct ‘political liquidations’: killing and kidnapping royals and politicians, maybe going after their families of the latter if they can too. That isn’t our concern; that is for others to try to deal with.”

Castle wore the clothes that Lucy had seen him in yesterday. He looked like he hadn’t gotten any sleep. He’d been insistent that everyone else who came here from London did, even a couple of hours, but he didn’t appear to have followed his own advice. His hair needed a comb, he probably needed a shower. He spoke a little more slowly than usual. There was his usual drawn-out, sweeping statements that he did when speaking to groups of people rather than one-on-one, but this wasn’t the on-the-ball Castle which she knew. She wasn’t in a great state herself and her mind was full of worries for herself and others, yet here was her boss who she worked for in Counter-Intelligence who looked like he really did have the weight of the world on his shoulders. She hoped that it was only the general fear of war combined with no sleep. If he knew more than he had already let on, if there was something serious that he was saying, then she would really have something to fear.

“Our task is working with the British Armed Forces to assist them in their efforts to combat Spetsnaz attacking military targets. You’ll see our friends in uniform here and there are more that we’ll be working with from the Army, the Royal Air Force and the Royal Navy. We’ll also act alongside the police constabularies across our area of operations too… and our good friends the Americans.

I understand that there have been comments made and questions raised before about whether the threat is real and as to the need to combat it with the resources committed. The decision has been made by those at that top. We may have our opinions, but they matter for nought at the moment. It is in the strategic national interest of the Soviets to have men active on our soil and in our country’s interests to combat them. Risk versus reward. They will aim to hit at our infrastructure and our military forces deployed here in Britain or deploying aboard.”

Lucy knew exactly of what Castle spoke of. There were those who questioned the wisdom of peacetime plans to be ready in wartime to engage Soviet special forces who were meant to be active in Britain. Would they even come this far? How many men could they reasonably send and what was the worst that they could do? Those men will be on a suicide mission and will be best used elsewhere, say on the Continent? Those were the type of things said. Yet, she knew too the responses. There was an awful lot of damage that Spetsnaz could do in Britain. Plenty of evidence pointed to them hitting military facilities such as airbases, communications facilities and command posts alongside seaports, airports and transport infrastructure once given the word to do so. A few scattered groups of men could do a lot of damage and cause a lot of disruption as well. They would be told that relief was on the way and would fight to the end awaiting that. The ground that they would be operating on would be pre-surveyed and there would be local aid available to them. Yes, there were some who overstated the threat, but that didn’t make it any less real, did it?

“We’re going to be pro-active. The Territorial Army, the Home Service Force, the Royal Navy, the R.A.F Regiment… they will be positioned in a defensive posture minus some reaction units. The Americans also will have their Air Force security troops in-place as well. Our job is not to sit behind sandbags manning machine guns. Those of us here from Five will be detecting threats and acting on follow-up information out in the field to get a beeline on these Spetsnaz and our partners here from the S.A.S will be then running that down.

Those Soviets won’t be here alone. Soldiers can hide out in forests or caves or wherever they want to but they will have to have local support to do anything. They will have been sent here to go after the American missile convoys out of Greenham Common trying to hit them on the move. They will also want to make raids against fixed installations that aren’t playing hide-and-seek with them. That means movement and movement will mean death for them if they are spotted.

There are people out there in-place to help them. We strongly suspect that there are sleeper agents who have established hiding places and pre-positioned supplies for the Spetsnaz. They will also have means of assisting the soldiers in remaining undetected. In addition, there are sure to be some traitors as well. These aren’t Soviet nationals masquerading as Britons, but actual traitors to the Crown. My personal opinion on them is that they will meet unfortunate ends soon enough – no one likes a traitor, they can’t be trusted – and that will help us in getting a tail on the soldiers out there. The sleeper agents will be far more difficult to locate but I’m hoping we’ll get somewhere and can move forward from there.

If we can’t get an early line on the support network, then we’ll be moving from reported action to another. We’ll be chasing sightings across the countryside and that’ll be a long chase. Still, that will give us a leg-up going after the Spetsnaz as well. Those of you who work with me, I want you to remember something: no heroics, that is what we have our own supermen soldiers for.”

Castle had been pacing up and down as he spoke though now lent forwards upon the chair he had yet to sit upon, resting his hands against the backrest. For a moment, he fought against a yawn before it came out. Lucy had her eyes on him but those of others weren’t: everyone else was looking at the trio of senior SAS men. These were from a unit not sent to Germany like their fellow special forces soldiers. From what she had heard, they weren’t happy at that. Castle was resting against that chair as he was before them.

It was one of them who had made the ‘bit of skirt’ comment. One of these muscle-bound, moustache-adorned so-called hard men. There were more of them in the SAS detachment though these were those in-charge of a grouping of commandoes brought here to Bath from up at Hereford. They thought they were tough, hard men. Lucy knew really tough, hard men: men such as her father. To her, the image they tried to portray as they sat almost lazily in those chairs letting their forearms budge and in camouflage gear with webbing attached was just an act. To be who they wished everyone thought they were, they would have to be dead inside emotionally. Like her father. That was the image these men couldn’t live up to. They had the false bravado. The remark made a little too loud when a woman walked into the room gave them away. They needed to boast and banter; if they were who they pretended to be, they wouldn’t have said nothing.

Reading people behind the camouflage mask, successfully too, was why Lucy worked for an organisation like MI-5. Chameleons like these chaps who would change their colours to suit their audience need not apply.


“Now,” Castle backed away from the chair and attention returned to him, “we’re here in Bath because, in effect, we’re regionally based over a wide area and independent of the military command. None of us are under British Army or any other uniformed service command, including the S.A.S men. That’s a bit complicated though because we’ll be working extensively with those in uniform on home defence duties. It will be South–Western District headquartered at Bulford Camp who we’ll work with and especially Forty–Three Brigade down in Exeter. They have overall military command of the men and women, plus far too many teenagers – cadets and servicemen under eighteen – for my liking, on guard duties and acting as local reaction forces. To make things more complicated, the Americans and their missiles, which left Greenham Common overnight, don’t answer to them on security matters when everyone else does including other Americans using military facilities across our area of operations.

Those of you from Five are going to be split to cover three geographical areas reporting back here to Bath. Paul: you and your men will cover the South–West proper from Dorset through Somerset and down to Devon and Cornwall. Harry: Gloucestershire, Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire. As you will all notice, we’re using English County boundaries to define areas but those aren’t set in stone. Finally, Jack: Berkshire, Wiltshire and Hampshire. Other teams are under other commands further afield. Yes, I foresee problems with overlap, but they will have to be dealt with.”

Lucy had already been told that it would be with Jack Anderson she would be assigned to work under along with four more MI-5 personnel, all out over an area of the country littered with military bases and important parts of the national infrastructure too.

“You will all see a lot of those in uniform, military and police, out there. They are dealing with mobilisation and the civilian issues that are going to be cropping up already. That will be done alongside the security threat. In terms of raw numbers, you might think it is an overkill when it comes to those on home defence duties but you’ll soon unfortunately find that the need is real.

Those Spetsnaz are out there and we need to find them.

So, let us get to work.”


Lucy’s war began.

She knew it wasn’t one she was going to enjoy. She didn’t want to work alongside Jack; Paul’s team or those with Harry would be better. It was a personal issue between them. She was ‘just a girl’, a dozen years of service with MI-5 aside. It was more than that though. There was a war that everyone was getting ready for – us and them – and there was a certainly being spoken of here, one which she believed, that it would start on British soil before it did on the Continent. Men would fight in the dark in ambushes and counter-ambushes. Those in the way of that would be left for dead. That would happen before the real fighting, with armies clashing in conventional fighting, started with abandon.

And before, as everyone expected it would but no one was saying aloud, the missiles flew and ended it all.

Her husband who also worked with MI-5 – keep it in the family, as they say – was elsewhere after being dispersed from London too doing whatever he was doing. When the missiles flew, where would he be? How long before the missiles got their daughter and her parents too? All this talk of war, of being pro-active and hunting an unseen and crafty, lethal enemy through the countryside… none of that would matter in the end. Yes, the depressing realisation that that was coming was with Lucy. And probably everyone else too. When the superpowers go to war in 1987, one multi-national alliance armed with nuclear weapons against another, that, she knew was how that story finished.



Waiting

Guards Major Ivan Alexandrovich Tarasov was waiting. The men around him were waiting. Those scattered further afield from this one particular hide elsewhere within the forest were waiting. They were also getting wet too under a sudden downpour.

The Great British Summer was, unsurprisingly, a wet disappointment.

It was supposed to be dry where Tarasov was. He and his men spread among similar hidden positions were meant to have shelter from the elements. The hallowed-out bases of trees and the earth covered holes alongside a stream were each meant to have been looked at in wet weather to check that they would stay dry under the rain. Upon arrival last night, Tarasov had immediately believed that whoever had found these sites and marked them on the map provided to him hadn’t put as much thought into that as they were supposed to. There had been a lot of other work to be done during the night and in the early hours of the morning to uncover various hidden supplies and also vehicles first so Tarasov had put the concern about shelter from the rain out of his mind at the time. It hadn’t been raining then. It was now.

Whomever had been here first was not someone who spent time outdoors. Rain seeped in from the ground above each hide and into them. It was fast getting everywhere as the downpour continued. The English language term was that the heavens had opened. Tarasov’s grasp of the language used by those whose country he was inside – uninvited and certainly unwelcome – was good enough to understand what that meant. More and more rain fell and a lot of that was getting into his hiding spot. He’d been wetter than this and in far more uncomfortable places that here, but it was rubbing Tarasov the wrong way because of the wider situation. The rain was an excuse to be mad.

It was the waiting he was annoyed at more than the wetness spreading everywhere.

To try to cheer himself up, he reminded himself that while here in this country called England, at least he didn’t have a zampolit with him. The Spetsnaz had no need for a political officer to be sent with them on a mission such as this. Of that, he could only be glad.


Tarasov and his men were in the Savernake Forest. This was privately-owned land near to a town named Marlborough. Here in the middle of summer – rain aside – the forest was rich with vegetation. The trees were full of leaves and the undergrowth was well-developed. The Spetsnaz were wearing their green camouflage gear and blended in nicely. Those hides that had been established here for them to wait inside were deep inside that forest where no one unexpected was going to come looking for them, much less find them.

There was to come an instruction over the radio link, a short message, just a lone codeword, that Tarasov was waiting to arrive before he would take his men out of here. Most of them were sleeping now after travelling overnight and then digging near to each location where they slept to find the hidden packages wrapped in watertight covering: weapons & ammunition, radios, other necessary military equipment, food & water stocks and different sets of uniforms to wear for a multitude of deceptions. Tarasov wished now that he hadn’t been so stupid and stuck to the rules in getting rid of that packaging. It was brightly-coloured so it could be found when digging. He’d had it destroyed, but it certainly could have been used. The plastic sheets which had covered the four hidden vehicles (not so brightly-coloured) which were used to line the inside of the hides had torn far too easily; that wrapping wouldn’t have.

Those who had found these places, whoever they were, may not have checked that they were dry but everything else was perfect. Tarasov had worked to do the same thing in many training exercises and then done the same in the hot zone that was Afghanistan. Their locations were undetectable and with clear fields of defensive fire along any conceivable access route to them. From above they certainly wouldn’t be observed and neither from down on the ground. It had been something Tarasov had understood overnight upon arrival, but during this morning he had taken a better look in daylight and really understood how well sited they were.

They had to be too. His life depended upon being hidden. So too did those of his men: all thirty-seven others he had with him within the coverage of the Savernake Forest. Tarasov and his men all needed someone safe to sleep, store everything they had to use on their mission and also make use of as a centralised base. From the other maps he had with him, those of the wider area, this place was perfect for the mission… apart from the rain seeping in.

That mission was to find Gryphons.


The legend of the Gryphon, Tarasov had been told, was that of a creature that was part lion and part eagle. The best, most aggressive features of both fierce animals were combined within a Gryphon. Alas, it wasn’t those imagined creatures which he was looking for but instead a weapons system given the same name in addition to its standardised designation of BGM-109G.

The real Gryphons were thermonuclear-armed cruise missiles which would rain death and destruction of an unprecedented level down upon his home nation, the now far-distant Rodina.

The pre-mission briefings before Tarasov had come here – a long journey indeed via air, sea and the land – had told him everything that he needed to know about the Gryphons that operated from the American military base at Greenham Common in the south of England. Each missile was one of four contained within a wheeled launch vehicle that would form part of a protected convoy operating away from its home base. The operating procedures away from the base and the numerical and weapons strength of those travelling with the missiles pre-firing were known. So too were the firing procedures. Areas previously known where the Gryphons had deployed to when the American crews were on exercise had been covered as well as how they had tried to cover their tracks then when training for the day which they would do that for real. A day such as today.

The briefings had been one thing; Tarasov knew that it would be different doing it for real. He and others who were tasked to command wartime hunting teams spread across Western Europe, where more Gryphons were deployed, had practised ambushing those missile convoys; there had been other exercises against the storage sites though those had been less extensive with the expectation that they would be empty… and also rather less easy to attack. They had done so in staff exercises but more work had been done in secret mock-ups of hunting down and making attacks ‘friendly’ convoys of similar weapons. Those had taken place against Soviet missile crews – everyone was armed with blanks but those on the defending side hadn’t been told it was a drill; que violent and deadly incidents with knives and improvised weapons – and while it certainly hadn’t been the same as combatting the Americans, it had shown how hard that was to do. Again and again, exercises had been run with the same purpose: locate, attack and withdraw. Do as much damage as possible to allow for an achievement of the mission in destroying the missiles rather than anything else and then conserve your force for the next operation. That message had been drummed into Tarasov.

It was what he was to do here in Britain after all of the preparations made.

It couldn’t all be done by themselves though. Tarasov and those with him, all professional volunteer Spetsnaz with combat experience, wouldn’t be able to find their targets on their own. The Gryphons would be hidden by those who were ready to effectively hide them. The area where they would be spread across, out in the countryside, was immense. Between them and Tarasov’s soldiers there would be others armed and alert. Therefore, there were watchers out there. They weren’t under his command nor were they Spetsnaz. He wasn’t entirely comfortable with the idea of relying on those watchers but there was no other choice. With a thousand men, many vehicles and helicopters, he wouldn’t have to yet he had to work with what few resources he had. The watchers would give him the general locations as they found the Gryphons though visual observations made, radio communications overheard and clandestine intelligence means. Then, only then, would Tarasov move his men and make the attack.


To start that process though, Tarasov needed a radio signal of his own: that codeword he was waiting to receive.

He had his orders to come here into another country when war had not yet started with armed men ready to kill anyone who stood in their way, purposely or accidently. If the impossible happened and discovery was made, Tarasov knew there would be implications that would harm the Rodina. Those who had issued his orders had told him not to get caught and only to do anything when the signal came to do so. He was not to move to strike beforehand.

So… he waited. It was another hour and a half until midday. A signal might come at midday. It might come at six o’clock this evening or at midnight. Should Tarasov receive that message, he would begin operations at dawn tomorrow. If it didn’t, he would wait another day. That what he was here to do: wait for the order to come.

He knew that it would too. It was not very likely that he and the others – and there were others away from just his men: he knew that without knowing the details – wouldn’t be sent into action now that they were here in a NATO country. Who could imagine such a thing as that?

It was just a matter of when.



Home Defence

The role of commander of the 2nd Battalion The Wessex Regiment – 2 WESSEX – was a dream come true for Lieutenant-Colonel Colin Pearson. It was what he had wanted for many years as he rose in rank throughout the Territorial Army (TA) up to what he considered would be the peak of his military career. Pearson couldn’t see any further advancement for himself yet he was more than happy to have the command of the battalion of infantry like he had. The TA formation consisted of volunteer reservists who served because they wanted to and were dedicated to their regiment. Morale was good with training and equipment more than adequate. No one ever expected the 2 WESSEX to see frontline action on the battlefield and so while the best wasn’t always available, as it was elsewhere for example with its twin battalion of the 1 WESSEX, what there was available was enough for the mission that Pearson’s men would be expected to perform upon mobilisation in wartime.

That mission was Home Defence.

Other parts of the TA were expected to deploy aboard upon mobilisation for a general war should the TA be called-out. They would go off and fight alongside the regulars on the Continent or maybe elsewhere. 2 WESSEX’s home defence mission was different though. They were to remain within Britain and defend the country against attack. That meant little heavy equipment and less training for modern mechanised warfare; instead, guard duties and the reaction role to engage assailants was what Pearson led his men in training for during peacetime exercises. In addition, instead of fighting alongside NATO allies on the battlefields anticipated to be in Germany, it would be working with other British reserve military units and non-military domestic forces throughout the English countryside where the battalion would fight. Being part of the Wessex Regiment, the plan for a time when war came envisioned 2 WESSEX remaining in the south part of England across the historic region after which the regiment was named. 1 WESSEX was trained for the Light Role and would go overseas yet 2 WESSEX was to stay behind. A large geographic area would be Pearson’s to operate over though he wouldn’t be alone. The impending threat that would come in wartime that 2 WESSEX would have to deal with would be numerically small yet large in capability. He had been reminded since his appointment of the importance of the home defence mission, especially in the part of the country where his men were to be mobilised from and remain.

That mobilisation was happening today. The battalion was forming up at its peacetime stations throughout Berkshire, Hampshire and Wiltshire: the men reported to where they did during exercises. Over the last few days, those reservists had been on stand-by to do so yet the political hesitation from the Government had delayed that from happening. As other commanders in similar positions as him across the country had done, Pearson had pushed the waiting order he had been given as far as he could. He had brought forward training days for key officers and many senior non-commissioned officers before the official word came to begin to mobilise the 2 WESSEX. TA stations had been opened and preparations made to welcome incoming men whose contact details were checked and updated. Men who lived far from their mobilisation stations were encouraged to stay with friends or relatives near to them; many times, those hosting soldiers with Pearson’s battalion overnight were serving with it too. Weapons and equipment were all checked and the light vehicles that the battalion had access to were given attention from mechanics. Pearson had given permission for all of this to be done with his higher command well-aware; it was being repeated with other formations of the TA. Everyone had been waiting on the Government to give them orders to begin mobilisation though there had been the unspoken knowledge that he and others had that the implications of mobilisation meant that war was certainly coming.

They weren’t going off to war, but that didn’t mean that war wouldn’t come to visit them here at home in Britain.


2 WESSEX had its headquarters at Brock Barracks in Reading with the command staff and several support elements mobilising in this town within the Thames Valley / M4 Corridor region. Also here in Berkshire, one of the rifle companies with Pearson’s battalion were forming up as men arrived at nearby Maidenhead. Other companies had their mobilisation stations to the west at Swindon in Wiltshire and down in the southern part of Hampshire at both Portsmouth and Winchester. Four rifle companies, with more than ninety men each, plus his battalion elements formed the formation which he led. The men consisted of a lot of riflemen but there were also those who fulfilled other non-combat roles too. He had former soldiers from the British Army among the ranks as well as those who had always been in the TA. These men had trained together and many knew each other socially as well. Unit cohesion wasn’t perfect due to the geographic spread across three counties but it was as good as it was going to be. The whole battalion wasn’t going to be fighting together on one battlefield though… thankfully.

In addition to his rifle companies and battalion assets, 2 WESSEX had also gained command over two ad-hoc companies of the Home Service Force (HSF). The HSF was something new with the pilot scheme for a modern Home Guard having been started only a few years ago. The company badged with the 2 WESSEX as well as the one with the Royal Wessex Yeomanry that was headquartered in Salisbury consisted of more volunteers who were dispersed in platoon-sized detachments far and wide but again over the same three counties as his TA battalion. They were men trained for static guard duties, again on the home defence mission, yet with a lack of mobility. Morale was higher among them than among 2 WESSEX and there was also a deeper local connection. The HSF was a valuable asset to have under his command for Pearson because the presence of such men on guard duties at key points would free up his men for more reactive missions. The men with the HSF had a bit of an independent streak which Pearson wasn’t entirely comfortable with yet he was glad to have them.

When given the final order to mobilise early this morning, Pearson had acknowledged the order from his higher command at 43rd Brigade and then telephone calls had been made. There was an announcement on the civilian radio network too. He had told the brigadier in-command there in Exeter that 2 WESSEX would complete mobilisation before the end of the day. It wouldn’t take too long due to all of the groundwork done in the past few days. Politicians had previously talked of diplomatic efforts to avert the immense international tension and there had been ‘guidance’ issued by the MOD in London when it came to increasing tensions, but none of that had mattered here in at Brock Barracks. Those orders had been followed officially yet everyone had been set ready to go as they had done after Pearson had been told to mobilise.

The commanding brigadier had told Pearson what he wanted him to do while the 2 WESSEX was undertaking its home defence mission. As previously covered in peacetime briefings and then what Pearson had been reminded about in the recent period of extreme international tension, there was a Spetsnaz threat in the area of operations where the 2 WESSEX was to be. Neither Soviet paratroopers nor marines were hardly expected to invade England from the South Coast; their special forces were anticipated to be active instead. The whole region was littered with potential targets that could come under armed assault by commandos. There might be air and missile attacks from afar as well, yet the battalion which Pearson led was to defend against attacks by Spetsnaz. That meant having his men out on patrol near to the vital military facilities and also parts of the civilian infrastructure across the three countries where the 2 WESSEX was to operate. 43rd Brigade agreed that the task would be difficult but Pearson was told that at the very most he could expect that there would be no more than a hundred men, probably less. Those men would be cut-off from external assistance and despite their advantages in training and element of surprise (tactically, not strategically) 2 WESSEX was expected to defeat them. Pearson’s men wouldn’t be alone in the long-run in doing that either.

Once the threat was identified with an attack or a series of attacks, help would be sent. In the meantime, his men were to do their duty in guarding where they were meant to and running their patrols.

This was home defence.


2 WESSEX’s peacetime operations officer was a colleague of Pearson whom he respected a lot for his capability and the two of them were on very friendly terms as well. Unfortunately, with Pearson’s battalion being regarded as the junior of the two within the Wessex Regiment and 1 WESSEX going off to war, there had been some instances of outright theft of selected men from 2 WESSEX to fulfil needs within the battalion going off to war not staying behind. Pearson had seen his operations officer given orders to depart when the mobilisation orders had come along with a few others from his staff. Those men were needed with 1 WESSEX and he had had no choice but to obey. The men such as his friend were all career soldiers with much experience and it was judged by 43rd Brigade that 2 WESSEX could operate without them. What Pearson had managed to avoid was further raping of his command for whole sub-units or what little heavy equipment that he had. They’d been thinking about that, those above him had considered doing so, but Pearson had been left with most of his command because of what was contained within his battalion’s area of operations. Other TA forces set for home defence in other areas of the country where it was judged that there would be less of a Spetsnaz threat wouldn’t had been so ‘lucky’ as to lose a dozen officers and senior NCOs.

Captain Dave Jones had been ordered to fulfil the operations officer role on an acting basis by Pearson. It was he who reported to his commander this lunchtime on the status of the battalion as news come in from the various mobilisation stations of men arriving and the process of forming-up. Jones was full of good news and Pearson was glad to hear that. Men were turning up when and where they were meant to and the sub-units of the 2 WESSEX would be ready to deploy away from those mobilisation stations as soon as possible to the operational areas where he intended to send them. Jones also told him about the HSF and how quickly they were out as well; they were (politely) boasting about beating the TA to get into action.

Furthermore, Pearson was also brought up-to-date by his acting operations officer on what else was going on away from the 2 WESSEX across where it was to operate. The 1st Infantry Brigade and the 5th Airborne Brigade, both British Army units with regular soldiers and attachments from the TA such as the 1 WESSEX with the former brigade, were moving from their peacetime garrisons around Aldershot in Hampshire and the general Tidworth area on the Salisbury Plain in Wilshire. Those men had been held ready for days but were now moving. The Paras were converging upon Gatwick Airport (closed to the public once TtW began) and the infantry and armoured units were heading for RAF Lyneham. That latter had their equipment already aboard ships leaving the South Coast yet the men were heading up to the RAF transport base near Swindon; Jones couldn’t explain to Pearson why those men were already heading for aircraft when the ships had only left Southampton carrying everything they would need for a fight whether they were going, but the men were moving still. Military airfields such as RAF Lyneham and RAF Odiham, the important command centre at Wilton Barracks and the American-ran munitions depot at RAF Welford & missile base at RAF Greenham Common all had security units active around them ready to be joined by parts of the 2 WESSEX. There were other military facilities and selective civilian locations where there was activity to protect them from attack where Pearson was to send his men to be nearby: the nuclear establishment at Aldermaston, the semi-military airfields at Boscombe Down & Farnborough and the chemical warfare site at Porton Down. Furthermore, there were the South Coast ports (excluding Portsmouth where the Royal Navy was in-charge after closing off Portsea Island) and the motorway network of both the M3 and the M4. These places too, Jones informed Pearson, had security active.

Through Berkshire, Hampshire and Wiltshire, so much of the area was already fast turning into an armed camp. 2 WESSEX was to join that. Pearson could only hope the Spetsnaz would decide that they stood no chance doing whatever they were planning to do and stay inactive. That was probably a forlorn hope, but it was a hope he had regardless. Otherwise, his men on their home defence mission were going to have to see if their training and preparations to meet such an opponent would work.

He wouldn’t say it aloud, not even hint at it, but Pearson was concerned at the ability of his men, and others, to effectively counter those Spetsnaz should they be met. Bravery was one thing, what such an enemy might be able to bring to bear even in few numbers was more than a little worrying.



Not Lost

Senior Sergeant Arkady Sergeyevich Zobnin knew that they were lost. He’d been lost before and known it then. He was lost now and knew he was. Those with him were therefore lost too. Lieutenant Nartov didn’t agree though: no, he said, they were not lost, not at all.

Keeping his temper in check because Nartov was an officer and he wasn’t, Zobnin brought his lieutenant’s attention to the maps. They were sheltering out of the rain under the coverage offered by the trees and he was able to open them up. First was the secret military map of the area around southern Wiltshire and the second was the tourist map for walkers that Richard had given them. Zobnin showed Nartov where they were supposed to be and pointed out that based upon both maps, they were nowhere near there. Nartov demanded that he be told where they were then if they weren’t where he said they were supposed to be. When Zobnin couldn’t provide an answer, because as he said they were lost, the lieutenant took that as a concession that his sergeant didn’t know what he was talking about.

No, he knew exactly where they were and that was where they were meant to be as well.

Zobnin pointed over to the hill on the left: “That’s sixty or so meters high, Comrade Lieutenant.” He moved to the one to the right: “That hill is half the height.” Zobnin pointed back behind them: “That stream we crossed is half a kilometre away.” Finally, he pointed ahead of them: “That road is straight with no bend to it.”

“Yes…” The testing, arrogant voice of Nartov was enough to cause Zobnin to consider what it would be like to see the man flayed alive.

“That is not here!” He jabbed a finger on the first map and then moved it to the second, repeating the stabbing motion against the glossy paper. “It cannot be, Sir.”

Nartov shook his head. “No, Sergeant, we are where we are meant to be.” He wouldn’t have it. “Look: hill, hill, stream and road. We are in the middle and therefore where we are supposed to be.” Nartov closed up both maps and put them back into his pack. “We go down to the road and cross it heading east. We have to reach that woodland before it gets dark so we can find our staging post and meet with the captain.”

The road ahead didn’t appear to be the A303 highway that Nartov was certain that it was. The woodland beyond, off in the distance between here and what would be their priority target when the orders came that the war had started, was too close for them to be where they were supposed to be and certainly wasn’t.

Zobnin had an idea. He took out his binoculars and looked down along the course of the road. There! He saw what he was looking for.

“Comrade Lieutenant, permission to take a man with me and go down to the road ahead of everyone else.”

“We have a point man for that, Sergeant: I need you with me.” Nartov had no trust in Zobnin’s navigation skills but didn’t want to lose his company alongside him. “What do you see?”

“A road sign, Sir. It is angled the wrong way, but there it is. I can get there fast, with another man alongside me, and make sure.”

“Well…” The hesitation was telling. Nartov’s bluster was just that. An immediate ‘no’ would have meant that he did truly believe that they were not lost.

“I can be quick, Sir. I will take Viktor Bogdanovich: he is a natural runner and will do as he is told.”

Nartov exhaled loud and in a rather dramatic fashion. “Go.”

Nartov conceded and Zobnin was quickly off away from where the group of the thirteen men in total had momentarily halted to allow the debate over where they were to commence.


Zobnin took a yefreytor with him. The corporal set the pace and Zobnin kept up. The two of them darted from cover to cover this afternoon as they raced for the road sign that had been spotted. Their Spetsnaz comrades were watching from afar and Zobnin knew that two men with sniper rifles had the whole area under surveillance. He felt confident in that knowledge where others might not be under the watch of men with weapons like those. The others in the special forces team he served with weren’t the sort to accidently shoot their own side!

They got closer and closer to the road. Zobnin had been told by Captain Panchenko – who was with the rest of their team elsewhere and moving towards the staging post as well – that this highway across the south of England and was a major transport artery. Military convoys could be expected to use it and there would be roving patrols but it wasn’t directly guarded on open stretches. There was no traffic at the moment: all vehicles were strangely absent. A large town named Salisbury lay away to the west – beyond where they were going – yet no one was out here.

As they got closer to the sign and nearly within sight of it, Zobnin had two contradictory thoughts.

The first was what he was going to do to that British man named Richard should he see that traitor again. It was the young man with the slicked-back hair, leather trench-coat and a girlfriend who he wanted to take with them on the minibus who had dropped them off in the wrong place leading them to get lost. If he had been focused on what he was supposed to do, betraying his country as he should have instead of worrying about the feelings of that girl, he would have got them to the right place. Zobnin hadn’t been alone in wanting to get rid of her first and then that Richard afterwards for what had gone on when the helper had showed up with his vehicle to collect them from the coast and drive them inland. Traitors can’t be trusted; Zobnin and his comrades had learnt that in Afghanistan fighting the dushman. There were orders to leave them be as Richard was needed for other things – unspecified – and couldn’t be killed; nor could his girlfriend because, apparently, she was useful as well. Zobnin had been annoyed with everything about that man then when he had wanted to kill him. Told that he couldn’t kill him, he’d see him in pain then for dropping them off in the wrong place.

The other thought was a sudden concern that the lieutenant might have been correct. It entered his mind and he couldn’t shake it. He knew Nartov was wrong. That fool wasn’t capable of navigating across hostile territory like Zobnin was despite what Panchenko had said. But if he had been… how Zobnin would have to humble himself.

That second thought wouldn’t go away…

…and the concern because reality.

Zobnin could speak and read English, hence why he had been sent to Britain. He read the road-sign. It said that this was the A303 and up ahead to the east was Salisbury.

They were in the right place.

The yefreytor gave him a look of confused alarm when Zobnin swore and swore again and petulantly sat down and punched the ground. He didn’t care though. He could only imagine that look of triumph on Nartov’s face and the words he would say. The lieutenant would be rightly able to say that it was he, Zobnin, who was arrogant and that no, they were not lost. That Richard had been correct in where he had stopped that minibus and let them out as well.

Zobnin had to ask himself if the world was conspiring against him today to make him look like a fool.


They met up with Panchenko and the other group in the wooded area. The captain and the others had been held up by a helicopter in the sky that for some time had hovered near them and so arrived later than expected. Contact between the two groups was full of tension as they came across each other yet set guidelines were followed and there was no fraternal exchange of gunfire or the slitting of throats in sneak attacks.

Nartov went off to talk with the senior officer who was in-charge alone and away from Zobnin and the sergeant who had been with the captain. The two sergeants spoke about what had been happening with each on the way here and Zobnin confessed his mistake and how he felt about being such a fool. His comrade was understanding enough and told of the panic he himself had felt when they had stumbled right into a small party of civilians without any warning at all where everyone had messed up. The family of four had been dealt with – details weren’t forthcoming but it was clear that they had met an untimely end after coming across armed men who certainly weren’t British – and the other Spetsnaz had moved on with the knowledge that they had made the mistake of overconfidence.

Zobnin had been glad to hear that he wasn’t the only one who was a fool, yet he still was a fool. He remained unsure how he had made such a mistake – could both maps have been incorrect or did he just not know how to read them? – but it had been a mistake he had made. It shouldn’t have been done. When they were into action, such an error could cost him and everyone else their lives.

The officers returned and called the sergeants to them. The details of the mission that they were here to do was revealed. There were two targets to be struck at once orders came that the war had begun. One of those was a command centre full of staff officers and the other was a military airfield. Both were guarded but had been scouted beforehand to find entry and exit points plus a good escape route, one which avoided nearby barracks complexes. Each was to be raided with a specific purpose not to eliminate them and everyone in them as a whole – an impossible task for less than thirty men overall –, just a part of each to achieve a set goal of knocking them out of action with deaths and explosions. It would be complicated and dangerous. That was what they were here for though.

Nodding in acknowledgement as he was told what he would be doing, Zobnin cheered up. He would redeem his error in combat. He would also make sure that they were not lost again.



Volunteers

There had been protesters at RAF Greenham Common before Cruise arrived and there was a joke among some that they would be there after they left too.

The Gryphon missiles had departed, leaving in the very early hours, though not in the way that that comment was meant. Now the protesters were leaving too. Again, however, just not as was meant in that running gag.

At three in the morning, a couple of hours before Transition to War went into effect and Britain mobilised, the missile convoys had rolled out of their shelters and past the protesters at the gate. Most, not all, had been asleep at such a time (the choosing of such an hour was deliberate) and the convoys had headed far away nearly unmolested. The Americans with those missiles were gone and weren’t coming back to Greenham Common until either the diplomatic crisis was suddenly averted or the war everyone was sure was now coming saw them fired or not before the end of that conflict.

The famous protests at Greenham Common weren’t as full-on as they had been previously back in the early Eighties during the later years of this decade. The protesters and their camp were still there, claims that they weren’t after interest had been lost were false, just not in such numbers as before. Such had been the case until Washington and Moscow were at each other’s throats with threats and allegations – and by extension everyone else in government within the superpower blocs – over the past few weeks and Greenham Common was again at the centre of attention. Anti-nuclear and pro-peace campaigners returned in number and so too did other protesters in the form of a wide variety of anarchists, Trotskyists and other troublemakers. Contrary to unfounded lies, none were pro-Soviet. They were there to take a stand against Cruise and the threat of a war that would bring nuclear holocaust. Debates on whose agenda they served, unwilling or not, without realising it or not, were for another day. They were there and that was what mattered to those who made the decision that with the wartime preparations and restrictions in-place countrywide, they needed to be moved on.

Thames Valley Police had been told to disperse them to restore public order under TtW. They used mounted policemen on horses and their specialist riot squads. Special constables were present with those volunteers given the same orders as those who served full-time: get rid of these protesters.

That had begun at dawn.

A small number of HSF soldiers had arrived not long afterwards but they stayed right out of the way of the chaos that unfounded. These volunteers with the Home Service Force were not needed; the police cracked heads themselves. They could only watch from afar as what happened outside of Greenham Common offended the decency of some while greatly pleasing a few others. It went on all day and through the evening, moving slowly away from the military base here in the heart of Berkshire towards the town of Newbury.

The soldiers wondered when it would all end.


There were eleven HSF soldiers in Greenham Common / Newbury area, less than a dozen volunteer soldiers. A rifle section from the Reading Platoon of the 2 WESSEX’s E HSF Company (formed three years ago) were joined by a sergeant from the company’s headquarters staff attached to boost manpower and leadership.

Sergeant Steven Banks was that sergeant and was one of those aghast at the scenes being witnessed.

Corporal MacGregor and Lance Corporal Turner were the two non-commissioned officers within the tightknit rifle section. Their own platoon sergeant was back in Reading with the commanding lieutenant. Like Banks, the pair of NCOs were there to make sure that if there was unexpected gunfire from among the troublemakers being dealt with by the police – no one knew who might want to do such a thing – then there were trained riflemen on-hand.

Turner agreed with Banks that the police action was overdone though MacGregor didn’t.

‘Traitors’, the retired former Royal Marine now in the HSF called them, and ‘who deserved what they got’. He listened to the radio reports in addition to what he had been able to see for himself and was gleeful in what was going on. Every time anyone was knocked down by a truncheon or a police horse, he let out a cheer. When the sirens wailed and there were screams audible over that from those caught up in the violence, he whooped like an idiot. Banks was sure that at least two, maybe more of the privates within the rifle section, were in general agreement with the corporal. They were all here the racecourse where those arrested by the police were being taken too as a temporary holding point and from what was observed, it wasn’t always the sort of people that was expected that turned up here beaten and bloody. There were men and women, the young and the old. Banks spotted several who certainly looked like troublemakers but they were few and far between among everyone else being brought here where the police were sorting through them and working out who they wanted to keep in custody and those who were going to be let go after being forcibly ejected from the whole area.

Banks really wished that he wasn’t here to see this.

There had to be a better way of dealing with those at Greenham Common, surely?


He hadn’t joined the HSF to watch the police crack heads. The volunteer military organisation first raised starting in 1982 was a semi-independent part of the TA. It was open to former military personnel of all stripes from across all of the British Armed Forces: soldiers, sailors and airmen and everyone else. It was a local force meant to be called out only in wartime and not to fight abroad but to guard key points across the country. Rather popular, the HSF had a lot of volunteers wanting to join: sometimes they could be rather choosy too in who they took, but not always with MacGregor a case in point.

E Company had platoons spread from Reading to Maidenhead, Portsmouth and Winchester: through 2 WESSEX’s operational area. Banks had retired after his twenty-two years as a sergeant within the Royal Corps of Transport (RCT). In uniform with the 17th Port & Maritime Regiment he had never fired his rifle in action. Joining the HSF, he knew that was a possibility but believed it would be less so being in the regulars. That wasn’t cowardice on his part, just common sense. The Cold War would always stay cold and the Soviet commandos that they were all warned about – these so-called Spetsnaz super soldiers – were never going to swoop into Britain ahead of tanks rolling across the North German Plain.

But… it was now looking like that was going to happen. In fact, Banks was surprised that the war hadn’t started mobilisation started this morning. As far as he knew, while Britain was in mobilisation, so was everyone else. The Americans would have their REFORGER going and so would the rest of NATO be doing what Britain and the United States was doing. It was therefore something of a shock that the Soviets hadn’t attacked yet.

Tomorrow, the Company Sergeant Major at the company headquarters had said, maybe the day after. Banks had agreed that it was like 1914. Once one side mobilised, the other would and then the guns would start firing and the tanks rolling rather than see apparent advantage lost. Alas, those were questions and debates for those higher up… he had more pressing concerns.

Those detained by the police who were doing their TtW duty with far too much vigour – gaining the support of those such as MacGregor and others who got excited at the sight of blood; such people were few and far between but did exist – continued to stream into Newbury Racecourse. Banks saw that carry on this evening but his mind drifted to his son, Steven Jr.


The younger Banks was seventeen; eighteen years old in three months. He was in the RCT, following in his father’s footsteps, and the teenager was assigned to the 29th Transport & Movement Regiment based in the Cotswolds with the rank of driver. It had been a week since father had spoken to son.

Banks didn’t know if his son was going off to war. Soldiers across the country in units with planned overseas deployments in wartime were doing so after being held ready throughout Britain for more than a week now. They had suddenly been given the word to deploy abroad at dawn today. The 29th Regiment was assigned to support those that would be off to Denmark and the Baltic Approaches following a NATO commitment. Banks knew that the 1st Infantry Brigade had left Salisbury Plain; that was a rumour that he was certain had weight to it.

Would his son be leaving the Duke of Gloucester Barracks at South Cerney though?

During the war in the Falklands (where he had gone himself five years ago), Banks knew that there had been teenagers – aged sixteen and seventeen – who had gone off to fight there. Some of them had lost their lives and a political fuss afterwards had made it official policy that in future conflicts, that wouldn’t happen again. The British Armed Forces had many under-eighteen’s though and the mobilisation ongoing where from what he could gather everyone possible was being shipped out to Germany, Norway and the Baltic Approaches – maybe elsewhere too; Banks couldn’t be sure – would mean leaving units short without such teenagers.

Banks was proud of his son. He loved the boy. He didn’t want to see him killed under the treads of Soviet tanks in Jutland though. That NATO mission there was, he believed, a bloodbath waiting to happen. He’d never been aware of all of the details of what would happen, but it was clear that just a lone British brigade, maybe supported by a similar-sized force of Americans, was going there in wartime to help the Danes and the West Germans. It would be a slaughter with so few men (and hardly any tanks of their own!) under the weight of Soviet armour.

He had no knowledge as to whether that 1982 decision was being honoured. He could only hope that it was. He wanted his son to stay where he was, driving trucks here in Britain even, anything but be sent there. Yet, he didn’t know. There was no way of finding out either. The lack of knowing was frustrating at the minute; Banks feared that it was only going to get worse.

Of course, the survival of his son – plus himself here and his wife at home outside Reading – depended upon whether the Soviets decided to not smother Britain in a bath of thermonuclear fire… another SERIOUS worry Banks kept to himself like everyone else was trying to do.


Meanwhile, as his mind ticked over those fears for his son, his only offspring, more civilians arrived where he was. Banks listened as MacGregor gave another shout of approval at the latest batch brought here. Thames Valley Police were doing what they were told and restoring public order outside of Greenham Common… even if that meant creating a lot of disorder to achieve that.

Those who stood in their way were left badly hurt.

It could have been worse though. There had been no tear gas used, no petrol bombs thrown and no bullets fired. It wasn’t Northern Ireland after all. The volunteers with the HSF weren’t needed and he was thankful for that.

He wondered how many more would be brought here and how many more were left near to the military base from where the missiles that caused so much trouble had long departed. Banks had been told by the CSM that they had come from all over the country as war loomed and there were maybe thousands. It wasn’t those women in that peace camp that were known to be about to cause problems – as had happened – but others. The women were caught up in it though, along with so many others with intentions at Greenham Common being noble, nefarious and everything in between.

The sorry state of those here gave testament to the diverse groups of those who had been moved on from outside of the missile base. Banks could only shake his head and keep his thoughts to himself. He was helpless and had no control over the events nor any say at all in what was happening.

Whilst he did so, he and everyone else didn’t know that World War Three was now only a few short hours away. All hell was about to break loose worldwide… and here in certain parts of the English countryside as well making the restoration of public order at Greenham Common seem nothing more than a shouting match than the bloody mess it was.

[James G]

The Second Day


Run

Entry had been made into RAF Boscombe Down from the southern side.

The Spetsnaz assault team had to get through the outer defences first. Sergeant Zobnin had joined his comrades crawling on their bellies across those under extreme close-quarters combat conditions. Defending security elements had been encountered a considerable distance back from the perimeter fence to the airfield itself and they had not been easy to overcome. The need for silence but speed also had been paramount. Machine gun pits, minefields, barbed wire, tripwires… the list went on. Those who had set up these defences hadn’t been fools and had done a good job. That hadn’t been enough though. The defences had been bypassed and the perimeter fence reached.

Yet, that had come at a bloody cost.

Pavel Andreyevich had been killed first and then Dmitri Vasilyevich had been mortally wounded before being needed to be put out of his misery by his comrades. Those two men had died alongside four men from the RAF Regiment, the life of one of them which Zobnin had taken and come away wounded from himself. Hand-to-hand combat that included knives, garrottes and bayonets, plus hands themselves – anything but a weapon that would make noise –, had taken its toll. Those defenders had refused to be the weak force which they were meant to be.

Passing the outer defences didn’t meant that the hard work was done: there remained more defenders inside. Moreover, at any moment, through a multitude of means, the breach through the positions of those outside could be discovered by those left out there or those inside. The pace was picked up going through the fence and into the airfield itself.

Get inside, do what needed to be done and get out fast. All of those with Zobnin had been told this over and over again. The reasoning behind that was clearly understood: to be caught inside such a place meant being trapped with no chance of escape and then certain death afterwards.


Only part of the military facility in Wiltshire was being hit this morning by the assault team. There was a big hangar on the eastern side where an aircraft was located within that structure. Aircrew along with important ground personnel were nearby. Everything else here wasn’t set to be attacked, just that one aircraft and those associated with it. Taking on the whole of Boscombe Down would require a far larger assault team than what was being used.

Zobnin was left near the perimeter fence. Other men went off with satchel charges across the inside of the airfield streaming for that hangar. He was left behind with a couple of men and led them away from the pair of entry holes cut to begin fast work upon creating a second pair of holes in the fence that would be used for the escape of his comrades.

That would leave a total of four ways out with two intended to be used but another two available as well, just in case.

Nikolai Konstantinovich and Yuri Ilyich were at the fence with Zobnin.

The job of these two men was to use the tools at hand to slice through the fence in a fast and effective manner. They had to work either side of the wire construction as well going through the anti-personnel mines to disable them. He watched over them not to check on them – they knew what they were doing – but for anyone observing and set to interfere or raise the alarm. Those inside the airfield would feel more secure than those outside and thus be more relaxed yet with the war having started several hours ago now such pre-war thinking would have been washed away with many. Zobnin couldn’t anticipate the thinking of those he might encounter. The best thing to do would be to not be seen.

Nikolai Konstantinovich was ill. The yefreytor had caught something and was feeling the physical effects. He had emptied his stomach and his bowels before the assault on Boscombe Down started. Whatever it was, it wasn’t contagious… as far as anyone could tell. He should have been left behind to stay with Lieutenant Nartov who was far back from the perimeter fence, over on the western side, and ready in-place to cause a big distraction right on-que. Captain Panchenko – who was leading the assault team towards the hangar – had said that Nikolai Konstantinovich was indispensable. He couldn’t stay behind, he was needed to disable elements of the physical defences around that airfield with his expertise. Men like Yuri Ilyich and others were good; the ill yefreytor was an expert. Questioned by his superior, Nikolai Konstantinovich said that he was feeling better after being given the tablets that he had – Zobnin nor anyone else knew of the contents and didn’t want to know either – and would do his duty.

Back outside the fence, when disabling one of the small landmines there to finish off completing the escape route, Nikolai Konstantinovich fell over.

Zobnin watched him hit the ground and winced as he closed his eyes. He panicked and didn’t move. He was waiting for the explosion of another landmine. Surprisingly, there was no blast that would alert everyone that there were intruders around the perimeter fence.

Yuri Ilyich hissed at his comrade to get up. Zobnin did the same. There came no response. The private there told his sergeant that the yefreytor was unconscious.

While Zobnin was stuck in momentarily indecision as to what to do, Panchenko chose that moment to make a brief radio transmission of ‘Medved, da’. It was almost as if his timing was deliberate!

Over the radio came transmissions from Nartov first – ‘Rys, da’ and then the other sergeant called in his readiness too: ‘Volk, da’. The bear, the lynx and the wolf were ready. They waited upon Zobnin, the lion.

“Lev, da.”

Zobnin had thirty seconds. That was all that he had until the attack commenced. One of his men was down but everyone else was ready. There was no time to wait. Every second the waiting continued, increased the chance of detection. He had to act now.

He dropped down and crawled across to where the two other Spetsnaz were. “Yura!” Whispering, Zobnin used the diminutive for Yuri Ilyich. “Are the mines disabled?”

“Yes.”

“Drag him clear. Hit him in the face to wake him up. Get him away. I’ll get his rifle.”

Without waiting for a response, Zobnin reached for the AKS-74 and grabbed a-hold of it. Dawn had recently arrived and he could see the path through the minefield leading in the general direction of one of the distant rally points. He estimated that he had fifteen seconds left by now – he should have been counting down but… – to get Nikolai Konstantinovich away. He could only hope that Yuri Ilyich would be able to do something with his fallen comrade. Leaving behind a man who was just ill wasn’t what Zobnin wanted to do. A man with a combat wound who was injured and whose wounds would slow them all down could be left behind (killed by him comrades too), but that wasn’t acceptable to Zobnin in this instance.

He now got upright and into the crouching position. His left lower leg screamed pain at him and reminded him of the wound there – a RAF Regiment soldier had stuck him with a bayonet – but that wasn’t going to stop him from doing his mission. That mission was to cover the exit routes for his comrades.

Any second now it would all begin…


From away to the west, Nartov and those with him opened fire with a pair of lightweight mortars. 82mm high-explosive projectiles arched through the morning sky on a short and steep trajectory and crashed into the airfield. They were aimed towards the main flight apron and also where the buildings were housing the security reaction force. Half a dozen rounds were fired by each weapon in a rapid-fire fashion before the mortars – dug-up from unground storage here inside Britain rather than having to be brought in with the men who’d use them – were abandoned. Explosive charges had been left with them with various time-delays set. Nartov’s mission had been to cause a distraction and there was no distraction like twelve mortar rounds, was there?

Panchenko led the mission against the hangar. The captain commanded from the front as was the Spetsnaz way. He and those men with him went into the hangar with weapons blazing and all previous stealth and cunning in their approach gone. They were firing upon anyone that they could and ready to start dropping their satchel charges. The other sergeant was nearby, outside of the hangar, and he led the few men with him in engaging fixed internal defences that had been sneaked up upon in furious assaults to cover the hangar assault.

From afar, Zobnin watched and listened to the assault his comrades made. He witnessed the arriving mortar rounds and the blast effects caused. The hangar on the eastern side was lit up by flashes from rifle barrels and outside there were small blasts from grenades and also scaled-down RPGs. He wanted to be there. It would be chaos and there would be bullets flying everywhere, yet he wanted to be involved. However, his mission was here to cover the escape route. If the Spetsnaz weren’t able to get out of this airfield, then there would be no running to the rally point, no second mission tonight and no life after this war in the English countryside.

There was a light machine gun that Zobnin was manning. It was an RPK-74M which could be used by a single man without the need of a loader. He held the weapon within his grasp as he remained in his crouching position (the rifle from Nikolai Konstantinovich slung over his back) with his eyes fixed ahead looking at those before him.

He saw what had to be his comrades and also NATO personnel – British, American or whomever else – up ahead. He held his fire though. His orders were not to open fire unless necessary. Others down there were engaging the enemy and his fellow Spetsnaz could easily come into the firing line if he sprayed the area at distance with a weapon like this. Instead, he was looking for something else: a reaction force. There was no sign of such a force though. Explosions ripped through the hangar as Panchenko and those with him pulled out of there and then all around the captain other men appeared as they fell back this way. None were going towards the distant entry points and were following the plan in coming towards Zobnin.

One of them, near to Panchenko, went down. There was the crack that Zobnin thought he heard of a high-powered rifle off in the distance. A sniper? He couldn’t see, didn’t know where that had come from. The fallen man was left behind. Did anyone check that he was dead and therefore couldn’t talk?

As his comrades got closer, Zobnin caught sight off a vehicle tearing down the runaway which they had crossed over. It was a four-wheeled jeep-type vehicle, a Land Rover. A viable target! Aim and fire. Zobnin did that without thinking. He slammed a full magazine of forty-five 5.45mm bullets into the vehicle aiming from the engine block at the front first and then shifting his fire up towards the front cab. The vehicle skidded, turned and flipped over. There was no fire or explosion, just men on the ground and what appeared to be a lot of blood.

A whole magazine was probably too much to have used but it was done now. He had another on the ground in front of him and he slammed that one into the weapon after dropping the empty one. Zobnin didn’t need to look at what he was doing as he had practiced this in training and done the same thing before for real in Afghanistan. Hesitation and carefulness was for another time. This morning it was all about being ready to open fire again.

There was no need though.

His comrades reached him and went past and through the cut holes in the fence. They’d been ever-so careful on the way in; on the way out there was none of that. They men almost dived through the holes.

Some men were missing though.

Panchenko was the last man. As he reached him, Zobnin noticed that the captain had a look of pure fury on his face. He was mad at someone or something. He whacked Zobnin on the shoulder and screamed at him: “The aircraft wasn’t there! The hangar was empty!”

“What?”

Zobnin didn’t believe it. No, that was not meant to be. There was meant to be a big jet in there that had some sort of strategic communications mission. It was the target along with the men who flew in it. The pre-assault intelligence said that the American aircraft had been hidden here away from its usual peacetime location. They themselves hadn’t witnessed it fly out of Boscombe Down.

His captain must have been wrong, surely?

“Run, you idiot.” Panchenko went past him. “We’ve been betrayed. Run!”

Doing as he was told, Zobnin went out of the nearest hole in the fence. Yuri Ilyich was there with Nikolai Konstantinovich. The latter was upright, supported by the former. Zobnin gave Nikolai Konstantinovich the briefest of looks and saw that while pale, he could make it. That was his judgement and it was what was going to happen. He grabbed the man’s assault rifle from off his own back and thrust it towards his Spetsnaz comrade.

“Run!”



Foolish

There had been a deceptive period of calm between the start of the war last night and dawn this morning. From eleven p.m. until six a.m., seven hours overnight, there had been none of the immediate Spetsnaz activity here in Southern England anticipated. Lt.-Colonel Pearson had been foolish in thinking that none – or maybe only a little – of what he had been warned to expect was going to happen. He had allowed the idea to enter his head that Soviet commandos had failed to get into the country before Transition to War shut the borders or that they hadn’t even been sent. The war had started across on the Continent yet it hadn’t come to Britain.

Then, at dawn, all hell had broken loose seemingly all over his battalion’s operational area.

Reports flooded into his headquarters at Reading of attacks that had taken place at locations through Berkshire, Hampshire and Wiltshire. Captain Jones, his operations officer, alerted him to engagements taking place between defenders at fixed points and groups of assailants attacking such locations. Military and semi-military sites were the subject of assaults taking place against them. None of them were where he had the men of 2 WESSEX though, just everywhere in between where his soldiers on Home Defence duties could be found.

Airfields were hit by commandos and/or mortars and so were strategic facilities were similarly attacked: the latter included the Aldermaston nuclear site but pure civilian installations as well. Some of the incoming reports were informative with others being those of blind panic. They had an identical theme though in reporting attacks and requesting assistance from his soldiers to chase down attacking forces that had retreated after striking. Everywhere that the Spetsnaz had attacked, they had done so fast and quickly withdrawn with or without achieving their objectives.

Pearson was now looking at the map during the mid-morning located on the wall of the operations centre where one of Jones’ staff had helpfully added pins to denote those attacks.

RAE Farnborough.

RAF Odiham.

RAF Lyneham.

MOD Boscombe Down.

Aldermaston.

Porton Down.

Part of the Corsham site.

Marchwood power station.

Slough power station.

Fawley refinery.

All had been attacked. Some were small strikes, others were far bigger. Pearson had been told that there was expected to be an attack across the board, where the Spetsnaz would hit everywhere they could before later focusing their activities better, but, again, he just hadn’t believed it.

What a fool he had been.


Pearson reported to 43rd Brigade headquarters in Exeter and the commanding brigadier there told him that such a thing had been known to be coming. There was plenty of intelligence before the shooting started that the Soviets were intending to do such a thing. They wanted Britain left in a state of panic to inflict damage to morale and curtail overseas deployments of military forces off to the Continent. Those in Bath, the spooks and the SAS team of Spetsnaz-hunters, were aware of the scale of that attacks and were going to respond. The areas were the attacks had taken place were concentrated and it was clear that multiple groups of enemy forces had sent detachments on lone raids all over the place. The geography and local security conditions bunched up the strikes. Moreover, not all of the attacks would be what they first appeared to be either. Pearson was told that the Spetsnaz wouldn’t be behind all of these. Most, just not all, were their work.

Meanwhile, 2 WESSEX was to follow the standing orders in stopping a repeat of this against what they were assigned to defend by flooding selective parts of the countryside with troops. Pearson was to have his men patrol the areas where the enemy might be found, to drive them underground and curtail their efforts, hopefully engage them if they could be found, only in certain places. His commander reminded him that keeping the motorway corridors open – those of the London to Southampton M3, the Thames Valley M4 and the coastal M27 – as well as securing the wider region where the American missile convoys from Greenham Common were hiding were the key tasks that the 2 WESSEX was to achieve. There were local defending forces at those attacked locations and others that had yet to be struck at and it was their task to keep those secure; Pearson had another mission.

If Pearson rushed men to the airfields, the MOD sites and those civilian locations, then his men couldn’t achieve their priority tasks. The RAF Regiment and the Royal Auxiliary Air Force (RAuxAF) had their mission. MOD guard troops and British Army soldiers not going aboard had theirs as well. The brigadier told him to remember the mission he had been given as that was what mattered.

Not long after that frustrating communication with Exeter, where Pearson felt as if he had done something wrong in reporting to his superior, his men following the set priorities reported in contact of their own with the enemy.


D Company under Major James Hodges was active across the M4 Corridor. They had mobilised out of Swindon in Wiltshire yesterday and deployed on platoon at key locations along the motorway, a second conducted roving patrols through the area either side and a third was left in reserve as a reaction force. Wiltshire Police and Thames Valley Police had both shut down access to the route as part of TtW leaving it for military use only.

Nearby RAF Lyneham, the big transport base, had been hit by a Spetsnaz action early this morning and RAuxAF personnel from RAF Hullavington (a non-flying station) had been at the forefront of engaging those who fired mortars onto the airfield and then sent in a raiding force to hit Hercules transport aircraft with RPGs. Hodges hadn’t sent his men racing there as he had followed his standing orders of protecting what was important plus also fearful of wandering foolishly into an ambush. There were military vehicles making use of the M4 motorway and those needed protecting from assault.

Those vehicles were in convoys moving east-west, west-east. Several were from the British Army moving stores and equipment. In addition, manpower of individual reservists and TA formations tasked for overseas duties were on the motorway. They had men posted atop vehicles with heavy weapons and also security vehicles too. The British forces on the M4 were joined by the Americans. The US Air Force munitions storage site at RAF Welford (British-named but American-ran) was along the motorway in Berkshire. At a former airfield used during World War Two, bunkers similar to those at Greenham Common though far more numerous, housed weapons for American aircraft in Britain. The site hadn’t come under attack though such a strike was expected… and those there said that they were prepared for that. What concerned the Americans more, and what Pearson had in his mission orders, were the protection of the convoys on the move. They were going to the multiple airbases in East Anglian and Eastern England where combat aircraft were waiting for those bombs, rockets, missiles and shells yet also westwards out of Welford towards RAF Fairford in Gloucestershire: that airbase was seeing the arrival of massive B-52 Stratofortress bombers. Several convoys going up to Fairford had passed through yesterday and through the early hours of today.

At around ten o’clock, another convoy was attacked with TA soldiers caught up in that.

Hodges reported that there had been cleverness used by what had to be Spetsnaz. He was rueful of what had happened yet there was too over the radio conversation that Pearson had with his subordination grudging respect for the guile and also the capabilities of the enemy. Their ruthlessness wasn’t respected though, only the cause of pure hatred.

Using the disguise of US Air Force security units, a pair of vehicles had joined the munitions convoy from the rear near to Baydon. The vehicles and uniforms seemed to match what was expected but those commanding security for the convoys hadn’t been fooled and realised what was coming. They had engaged the unknown vehicles and a rolling firefight commenced; it was like something out of the Wild West. The security tried to halt the incoming vehicles and get the trucks laden with explosive weapons clear yet had only been partially successful in that as rockets had been fired that hit several trucks the rear of the convoy causing them to blow sky-high. Yet, gunfire from a wheeled armoured vehicle had driven the Spetsnaz in jeeps off and the Americans hadn’t pursued them. They had feared it was a distraction for a second attack ahead and had also taken furious losses; they had wanted to get the rest of the convoy clear and heading away from where the attackers were.

In a trio of Land Rovers, a nearby rifle section from 11 Platoon had showed up. They had stumbled into the aftermath unprepared and the Spetsnaz had engaged them so as to get away and disappear again. The TA men from 2 WESSEX had lost a firefight. Some men had been killed during it, others afterwards with Hodges believing that was after they surrendered. Weapons, radios and uniforms as well had been taken by the attackers; they already had American uniforms and probably police uniforms too (a pair of Wiltshire Police officers had been discovered yesterday without uniforms or radios), now the chameleons that were those Spetsnaz operating near to Swindon could disguise themselves as TA soldiers.

Hodges told Pearson that his on-scene platoon commander was very upset at what he had seen and had returned to the company headquarters with a man from the company staff going out to replace him. The unusual move was down to the lieutenant’s reaction to seeing men with their throats cut after their hands had been bound along with other signs of improvised torture where they had been made to talk before being disposed of. Furthermore, a live grenade had been left under the body of one dead TA soldier, which had gone off afterwards taking the life of a soldier with the second rifle section that discovered the scene. There had too been loud comments made from that platoon commander about how the war wasn’t worth it and they were all going to die soon in nuclear fire when the missiles came; it had been necessary to maintain unit morale to remove him because he had clearly cracked under the pressure.


After that conversation, Pearson found himself even more deflated than he had been beforehand.

This war being fought here at home was nothing like that one currently ongoing in Germany, Scandinavia and wherever else it was being fought yet he felt the strain of it. The enemy was all over the place and doing their worst. His superior said that this was just the opening series of attacks and rapidly that would cease because for the Spetsnaz it was unsustainable. Their element of surprise was gone and they would be hunted down; no external help would come for them like it would for 2 WESSEX and the military bases spread throughout the battalion’s operational area.

Undertake your mission and hold steady, he had been told.

He was supposed to do that, and have his men, do the same when they had encountered a brazen and evil enemy like what 11 Platoon had. B Company was out on the Salisbury Plain and the North Wessex Downs looking for that enemy if possible. What horrors would they face, those men there under his command?

Something else was on his mind too.

Pearson went out of the operations centre – such a fancy name for a basement room with little in the way of modern technology in the form of communications and other equipment – at Brock Barracks and to see the battalion intelligence officer. On the BBC, there had been a radio broadcast that he had heard telling the country that open warfare had commenced and a state of war existed between Britain and the Soviet Union (along with allies from both). During that, and from the same message he had received from Exeter, neither had said something he had naturally, as a matter of course, expected to hear.

There had been no statement made that the Soviets had attacked first. That had been pointedly missing. No one else seemed to be giving that much thought.

Pearson had to ask himself something: did we (NATO, the West) start this foolish war?



Missing Prey

Guards Major Tarasov and the Spetsnaz group which he led were now actively hunting for the Americans after being let off the leash. Those small, self-contained Gryphon missile convoys that had long departed from Greenham Common were out in the English countryside. Tarasov had men ready to strike at them with the aim to destroy the missiles and launchers and kill every single person found with them. But, those Gryphons had to be found first before that destruction could be unleashed.

On foot and using the small fleet of vehicles that they had, Tarasov’s men could hunt across only a small area by themselves with absolutely no chance of success in their mission and the certainty that they would come under attack themselves from stronger forces soon enough as to search without any idea of where to look could bring such a fate upon them. Helicopters would be useful but, once again, it was all about where to look and the use of them – rather difficult to keep quiet – would only bring about a strong and eventual victorious reaction from the British and their American puppet-masters.

No, the only way to know where to look was the use of external intelligence support to pinpoint a small area where the Gryphons could be found and then for Tarasov and his men to descend upon that area. Without such knowledge sent of where the Americans were hiding with missiles ready to fly towards the Rodina and kill millions of Soviet citizens, the Spetsnaz being were bound to fail in their mission and ultimately end up as corpses too. It was those who provided the intelligence from the outside – whether they be satellite & communications analysts, GRU spies, British & American traitors or even the hated KGB – that would tell Tarasov where the Gryphons could be located as they pinpointed a small area of American operations; his men would go in and find their targets under camouflage.

External intelligence had said that one of the half a dozen convoys – a Flight of sixteen missiles mounted atop four launchers – was hiding here outside of the tiny village of Little Horton. Tarasov discovered this afternoon that he had missing prey: the Gryphons weren’t here.


They had been though.

The Americans had been here late yesterday and overnight too. They had departed several hours ago though, destination unknown. Tarasov had two men under his command who were professional trackers. They had geographical training with regards to understanding how the ground reacted to movement and weather. It wasn’t advanced technical knowledge and the men were only sergeants, yet it was more than Tarasov understood. The sergeants had looked at a patch of ground identified near to the quiet village and been able to tell what vehicles had been on that and for how long. The weight of what was atop the grass matched up with the vehicles that they were looking for, including launch, command and security vehicles. Rain hadn’t fallen under the vehicles for the time they were where they were. Diesel fumes affected the ground as well and a simple chemical test allowed confirmation that the right vehicles, not just any, had been here. A lieutenant watched over the sergeants and Tarasov wondered if that young officer understood all that his subordinates were doing and their findings as he was supposed to.

A couple of other men with the Spetsnaz group searched the ground for anything discarded. They were looking for further clues to confirm that the Americans had been here as well as what the technical experts found. These men had hunted dushman in Afghanistan who were cunning even if they lacked the sophisticated equipment that the Americans had. They knew what to look for in terms of dropped cigarette butts, human waste and such like: the little, tell-tale signs of recent human presence within a selective area of the countryside. Furthermore, another one of the Spetsnaz with detailed intelligence training was looking at how the Americans had deployed themselves when here. How they had been arranged in a defensive posture was noted and compared to intelligence already known… to be proved or disproved.

Tarasov had sent some more men further afield than just the hiding spot that the Americans had been in. They had gone looking for locals with knowledge that might be helpful in terms of what they saw or heard and when. Only a very few would come to the attention of the Spetsnaz yet the experiences for them would be unpleasant but short; once drained of any useful knowledge, they would go off to meet their makers. It was not something Tarasov wanted to do nor would his men enjoy it. It had to be done though. Their bodies would disappear afterwards, not to be discovered for a long time hopefully.

Staying back watching from a small patch of trees, looking southwards to where the field the Americans had set themselves up in when hiding here, Tarasov was watching over all of this as it was going on when the call of alarm came.

“Helicopter!”


Those out in the open dropped to the ground. They were wearing camouflage gear and knew to lay still. Those with eyes in the helicopter in the sky, searching for them or not, would be drawn to movement. From above, looking down and trying to spot men in such attire not making any movement would be near impossible. Tarasov had trained men out there who knew what they were doing.

Here within the cover offered by the trees, he and the others got down as well though not in such dramatic fashion. Weapons were carefully raised including one of his men who carried with him a man-portable surface-to-air missile launcher; it was propped over the shoulder of the yefreytor who trained it upon the helicopter while others had their rifles aimed skywards. It came from the east, from behind the distant Milk Hill, and headed straight for the Spetsnaz. Tarasov forced himself not to panic and a silent internal voice said that it wasn’t looking for them. It would be heading towards the town of Devizes behind and to do with the conventional military operation to get mobilised TA soldiers from there moving and deploying overseas. His men had their orders not to fire unless instructed to and he expected that those would be followed.

These weren’t the type of men to disobey him.

It was a little helicopter. Tarasov watched it come closer as it leisurely flew above the countryside at low-level and without too much haste. Again and again before setting out on this mission, he had joined his men in studying aircraft recognition and he recognised it for what it was soon enough.

A Westland Gazelle was above.

It either belonged to the British Army, their Royal Air Force or their Royal Navy. The helicopter was for light transport and also armed attack. This one carried no external weapons that he saw and the paint scheme appeared to be that of a naval helicopter, one for flight training.

What was it up to?

Tarasov looked over briefly at the missileman and then back to the helicopter. It came closer now though not directly overhead where his men were out in the open. The noise was more than he expected but then that started to fade as it passed by. He lost sight of it due to the trees though other men kept watch, making sure that it wasn’t coming back; more Spetsnaz looked to the east, the north and the south for more helicopters. They especially had their eyes out for a very different helicopter in the form of an Italian-built Agusta A-109. If they were spotted, they would certainly be carrying men of Britain’s own Spetsnaz; opponents far more capable than the security troops with the Gryphons who they were ready to take on in a fire-fight.

There were no more helicopters though. Eventually, Tarasov had his men return to their work. There wasn’t much more to be done here before they moved on and returned to their distant hiding places but what had to be would be finished now that there was no one above who would observe and note their presence. The Spetsnaz couldn’t hunt their targets if they were fighting British troops moving against them after being alerted to them. Tarasov didn’t have the numbers, the capabilities nor any possibility of support.

That wasn’t what he was here to do either.

His mind turned to what was to be done now. Once back in their safe locations, Tarasov would need new intelligence sent to him. The Americans had been here but they weren’t here now. The quality of the information sent had been excellent – where the Gryphons were had to be the tightest of secrets – just slightly out of date. His men had been brought here by him ready to ambush and destroy their enemy but hadn’t found one. That needed to change. The Gryphons had to be located and attacked. Otherwise, there was no point in his men being here at the great risk to them that there was.

In addition, un-attacked, those missiles were still pointed at his own country ready to be fired.



Impossible

People were leaving London like they were getting away from other cities and major towns across the country. Some had a good idea of where they were going and the means to get there; the majority certainly had neither. There was just a desire for a hell of a lot of British civilians to not be within London, Birmingham, Manchester and so many other places when the missiles flew, when the bomb dropped.

There was a general idea to go westwards. Wales and the West Country, even the Republic of Ireland if a boat could be found going there (despite the news that there were no boats), were regarded as somewhere safe… if anywhere could be safe in the nuclear war that was feared. Motorways and many main A roads were shut – along with national railway lines and the airports & seaports – but other roads were open for use. Transition to War was not about keeping people prisoner in their own homes yet no one in authority had realised just how many people would chose to leave where they lived and flee in the manner that they did without putting any thought into where exactly they were going or how they were going to travel far with the sudden petrol restrictions that had come into effect nationwide. Fleeing your home and place of work was against official advice and people were told that there would be no fuel for their personal vehicles. However, in the face of what was widely believed to be a war to truly end all wars, who really gave a damn about official advice?

There might have been a million people on the roads. They were crammed into all sorts of vehicles and fleeing for their lives. Alone, in pairs, family groups and varied groups of friends, those people were in vehicles that stretched away from what was seen as targets for Soviet missiles to somewhere that wasn’t going to be obliterated in nuclear fire. Those vehicles broke down or ran out of petrol leaving their occupants stranded all over the place with no order to the chaos. Thankfully, despite yesterday’s sudden heavy rain, it was the middle of summer and the weather warm. A humanitarian disaster of an immense magnitude was only delayed by the time of year. Yet, if something wasn’t done to sort all of this out that would come.

But… what was that to consist of?

How could the authorities deal with something like this? They had thought that people would do as they were told and stay in their homes. Now they had got themselves into what they had and needed help. Yet, the task was just impossible.


Lucy Hunt looked down upon only some of that chaos from above as the helicopter carrying her and three of her colleagues overflew the Wiltshire countryside on the way from Bath to Porton Down. The A303 was closed to civilian traffic but the A36 wasn’t and nor were all of the other roads below. There were so many lone cars that appeared to be stranded all over the place. Not all of those people below were from London as there were other urban areas from where those crossing Wessex had come from, but most were. She had no idea where those people had been going before they had become unstuck in their ill-prepared escape from the giant target that was the British capital. Other vehicles were caught up in jams caused by breakdowns, crashes or further cases of empty fuel tanks; there were roadblocks with the overstretched police manning them that were behind more long tailbacks too.

Just to look at it all from above, and realise that she was seeing so little of it overall, left her speechless. She had no idea who was going to help those people.

She hadn’t wanted to come in the helicopter. Could they go by car, she had asked, and travel down the closed motorways even if that took longer. Jack had said no because there was a rush. There was a helicopter available for their use – a British Army Westland Scout light aircraft – and it was going to Porton Down first then to nearby Boscombe Down. Lucy was to get aboard, her fear of flying notwithstanding. The fact that this was such a dated and seemingly puny little helicopter had made her apprehension worse. She hadn’t wanted to get inside along with Jack, Eddie and Lawrence, but she had been ordered to and had no choice. The ride was smooth though and there were no bumps… or fiery crashes into the ground. The noise aboard made hearing anything said, even with the headphones she was given, impossible and so she was glad about that too. It gave her time to think and also not have to listen to Jack going over everything once again. She had been told twice already why they were going to Porton Down and didn’t need to hear it a third time like her superior had tried to do upon getting aboard before he had been so abruptly cut off.

Porton Down was not far ahead now. The government-run facility was located near to Salisbury and was the country’s chemical & biological warfare testing establishment. There had been an incident there earlier today, alongside those that occurred in so many places when attacks were made across the whole of Britain, and finding out what exactly had happened there to follow up on clues that could be discovered was a priority. Lucy didn’t know what would be found once they got there but did know that it wasn’t a battlefield. That was good news. These Spetsnaz that they were chasing wouldn’t miss an opportunity to eliminate them nor their helicopter.


The landing was made in a field and upon command, Lucy and Jack got out. They were soon clear and the little helicopter was then up in the sky again and heading off towards Boscombe Down where the two other spooks from Five had business to do there with the dead bodies of Soviet commandos to attend to. The facility’s security director came out to meet them and ushered them into the secretive world that was Porton Down.

He told them that what had happened here wasn’t the work of Spetsnaz.

“Hold on. That’s not what we’ve been damn well told! What the fuck is up with you?” Jack didn’t lose his temper often but when he did he would snap at someone, and snap hard too.

“I’m sorry.” The response was calm and measured; Lucy judged this man to be very reasonable, which was necessary for his role. “There has been a mix-up. I did get in touch with your office in Bath to explain. What has happened is…”

Jack cut him off: “We just flew all the way here for nothing then?”

“Well… no… there was an attack. But, it wasn’t these Spetsnaz chaps you people are chasing. This was something else.”

“Mister Thompson, tell us then what happened.” Lucy spoke calmly and added a smile. She was trying to smooth this all over. There was no need for this all to get further heated. She and Jack were here and there was work to do regardless.

They were taken to the security director’s office and cups of tea were handed out by the man’s tired-looking secretary. With everyone having a cuppa, there was no more shouting. Lucy got their host talking while Jack sat in stony silence brewing over what she was sure his belief that he was having his time wasted; she hoped Jack was wrong.

The incident had started after nine this morning. There had been a bomb blast in one of the laboratories and then a major fire in another. Two security guards had been shot, one fatally. The perimeter fence had been penetrated and the alarms sounded. The sequence of events had been just that though: a blast, a fire and then the outer security overcome. No one had assaulted Porton Down to do what they had, they had been inside and then made an escape afterwards.

The laboratories where damage had been done had been those used for analysis of chemical weapons to identify their source and composition. The security director explained that here at Porton Down there were many labs used for different tasks and those two that had been wrecked as they did were for checking on unknown chemical substances expected to be encountered in warfare and used against British troops or civilians. There had been a purposeful and successful effort to stop such work being down here for the time being. If samples of chemical weapons previously unknown wholly or in a new variant needed to be checked here to determine effectiveness and how to counter them, that wasn’t going to happen at Porton Down for some time now. There were other labs at other places to do that, and other work could carry on here, just not that task in those two laboratories.

There was an employee that they were looking for. He was missing after what had happened and his details were given to Lucy and Jack. The security director believed that the destruction and shootings were carried out by him and he had fled. His further belief was that the perpetrator was working for the KGB, maybe the GRU or even the East German Stasi (the latter known to be active in Britain with a network operating at the behest of the Soviets), but this wasn’t part of a Spetsnaz attack. There had been confusion afterwards yet he had sent word to Bath explaining that. It wasn’t his fault that a mix-up had occurred on their end.

What had happened here was important. Lucy agreed with Jack after they left that meeting with their host that it was part of the enemy war effort against Britain and NATO. But it was for someone else, they were meant to be hunting Spetsnaz. A call over a secure line was made to Aaron back at Bath explaining this and he told Jack that he would find out where the communications mix-up had come from. Anyway, with the two of them being on the southeastern side of Wiltshire, something new had come in nearby just over in Hampshire that they could attend to. It might be of some significance, though might not be too. Their superior wanted them to check it out. Could they get to Winchester yet not using a helicopter this time?

“He couldn’t organise a piss-up in a brewery!” Jack lost his temper again, only after he had ended the call with Bath. Then he sent Lucy to go talk to the security director to see if he could help with transport to the Hampshire Police headquarters.


Things got very interesting in Winchester during the early evening.

A police car had taken them across from one county to another and gone through a roadblock in the Hampshire town of Stockbridge. It had been there in that village along the A30 main road (less busy than others with civilians) just a few hours beforehand where the police had stopped a vehicle containing a young woman. Something had been off with her: a policeman’s nose had smelled a rat. Questioned and asked to provide identification, she had tried to make a run for it on foot. They’d caught her and in the empty VW campervan she had abandoned what had been found within the vehicle had alerted Hampshire Police that they were onto something big. The young woman had spun them a story about being frightened due to army cadets nearby and tried a bit of an act pretending to be a damsel in distress but what had been discovered in the impossibly lucky find plus what clues they had to her identification set off many alarm bells.

This woman was calling herself Hanna. She said she was an Austrian citizen working as an au pair in Britain and now wanting to get home with a war going on. The campervan had been lent to her by a friend to let her reach Southampton. Anything in there wasn’t hers. She was just helpless and frightened and could they let her go, please?

Lucy and Jack went into see her in an interview room within the police headquarters. Special Branch officers had been talking to her beforehand and had briefed the MI-5 officers of what had been said though also what hadn’t too. Lucy had been annoyed at the number of people around who had been with Hanna and who she had spoken with all the way up from the men at the roadblock to a public order inspector from Hampshire Police. They hadn’t been very professional here, she believed, and to go into an interview like they did suspecting that there was a lot more to this than met the eye after such events hadn’t pleased her. Jack’s feeling on the matter he kept to himself though he was eager to make sure that if there was something here with this young woman, she would be out of Winchester and off to Bath as soon as possible. It would be a helicopter ride there for Hanna if she was a foreign agent like the thinking was.

Why was that thought about this young woman? Because she had run like she had, spun a story and what was in that campervan.


Jack questioned Hanna. He and Lucy were police officers, naturally there was no mention of the Security Service and their effort to hunt Spetsnaz. Lucy sat in silence and observed Jack at work. This is what he was good at. He had a temper and didn’t have faith in the ability of women to do what he saw as a man’s job, but, being a bastard like that, didn’t mean that he couldn’t get people to like him, trust him and talk to him about things they wouldn’t talk to others with regard to.

Hanna seemed to open up to him. There was less of that damsel in distress that Lucy had heard about yet she was still giving off the vibes about being frightened of the war and knowing nothing. Her lie about a friend giving here the vehicle to use was transparent for what it was. This Richard Young character who it was registered to had just given it to her without question, she assured Jack. What was in the vehicle apart from that rucksack of her clothes was not hers. The parking permit for Truxton Aerodrome issued a week ago – where was that? The hand-held radio that looked expensive with fancy gadgets attached hidden beneath a seat – she didn’t know that that was there let alone what it was. The rifle bullet of Warsaw Pact manufacture – oh, that was something she didn’t know anything about either.

And Richard? A nice man who she’d spoken to for five minutes and been trusted with a vehicle he owned – no, there wasn’t anything strange or impossible about that.

She gave herself away.

Jack asked her about the torn half of a parking ticket. Hanna said the name ‘Truxton Aerodrome’. Lucy realised that Hanna had been practising the lie and slipped up by spilling that detail. No one had said airport let alone the name of one. Hanna had mentioned it when asked about a permit to park this vehicle as she said she had no idea was in the campervan. The professional that was Jack had moved past that comment without a reaction and Lucy had done the same.

That didn’t want her to realise her error in her story of knowing nothing.


Jack spoke with Aaron and informed Bath of what they had. They had stumbled into something here and it was big. This Hanna was a foreign agent either willingly or unwillingly. She knew a lot and was trying to hide it, not very successfully. She could be broken in a detailed interrogation and broken hard. He wanted her sent to Bath where she could be spoken to at length and isolated from contact with outsiders.

Aaron agreed and said that he would sent the helicopter to them to bring Lucy and Jack back with Hanna; a policeman would come too just to keep an eye on her when they were airborne.

While they waited, Jack took Lucy outside with him when he had a smoke. He was told that he could smoke inside the police headquarters but made a fuss about wanting some fresh air. Lucy knew that he wanted some privacy. There were too many listening ears. Away from everyone else, Jack was gleeful and boasting at his own cleverness.

“Did you see how I got her, Lucy? I mentioned the ticket and she spoke without thinking!”

“I saw it. It worked.” Lucy leant back against the wall behind while Jack paced up and down as he smoked.

“I like this, this all makes sense.” He was still working it all out and Jack was talking it out to convince himself… and pick Lucy’s brain too. “Some Spetsnaz guys come in by air on a light aircraft; we were told that is how many would have arrived and this is confirmation of that.

Richard picks them up and takes them where he does. He does it several times and gets careless with repetition. The war starting catches them off-guard and they split up. Hanna has the campervan and panics – like she said – at the roadblock. Her mind races and she starts making excuses in her head. She can say Richard all she wants for she already knows we can trace the vehicle to him. She thinks she will get out of this.”

Lucy believed it might be a bit more complicated than that. With reflection, Jack would soon agree: he was just pleased with himself at the moment.

“She says she’s Austrian, but we can accuse her of being East German and therefore threaten to hand her over to the West Germans. We can tell her we have found Richard dead, that the… oh, no, that won’t do. No, what we’ll do is turn her against him. Yes, that would be better.”

Just nodding, Lucy said nothing in response. She was thinking of how this all would help in getting a line on the Spetsnaz here in Britain. Hanna, even this Richard character, wouldn’t know where they were now, but they would know where they had been. They might know others involved like them in getting Soviet special forces into Britain or supporting them afterwards. If Hanna couldn’t control herself in blurting things out, it might not take too long to get that information and so it would still be operational valuable. The seemingly impossible task of finding the Spetsnaz could have just become much easier.

One of the policemen came out to them. He had a look on his face that concerned Lucy at once. She just knew what he was going to say.

“Mister Anderson, Miss Hunt. You need to come inside.

Hanna has collapsed and she’s dead.”



Unsuspected

The GRU had sent Ekaterina aboard to become Eleanor and no one had said that the mission would be easy. She had previously undertaken similar postings elsewhere before coming to Britain though those had been short and hadn’t involved being so deep in her new identity as she was now. Those had been extended training exercises for what she was doing here yet the lies, the deception and the realities of serving her nation hiding among the Soviet Union’s enemies aboard had never been as hard to deal with as they had been since moving to the United Kingdom as the wife of Michael Dickenson.

Mikhail – aka Michael – had welcomed his new wife to the life of deception he led by treating her as he said he had done his first wife (another GRU officer) before she had unexpectedly died. His new wife would do the same as the old one had done: first and foremost, by doing what he said. In addition, as she was his wife now, Eleanor would meet all of his needs. He’d hit her when she refused his demand and had sex with her anyway… and whenever else he wanted to afterwards as well. That had been her start to her new assignment away from home and family far away doing what was needed to protect the Rodina.

The Rodina needed those to defend it, she had been told before leaving, who would do whatever it took and face whatever personal challenges came.


That memory of her first night with Michael came to Eleanor now as she was stuck in a traffic jam along the A419 road outside of Swindon. She had been told that the jams had been nowhere near as bad as they had been yesterday and that efforts by Wiltshire Police to clear them had been mostly successful around Swindon and better than elsewhere in Wiltshire that she had seen earlier in the day. The main road was the quickest route to take after leaving Princess Margaret Hospital within the town and going northwards to where she was and it had been recommended to rather than travelling through Swindon. The town was a bit chaotic with troubles reported there as police clashed with criminals so back out of the southern part of the town and then around Swindon had been what she had been told was for the best… especially since the roads were meant to be almost clear.

She sat alone in her car looking ahead at those people in the vehicle in front. A husband and wife were arguing furiously. She couldn’t hear them yet what she could see from behind was enough. Michael never raised his voice to her; he had other methods so as to get his way. Her own husband and father to her daughter, both of whom were back home and not going to be given the opportunity to travel aboard, came to her thoughts as neither her car nor the one in front moved. It had been two hundred and sixteen days since she had seen either of them. Vitaly never shouted at her nor hit her; Elena would never grow up to know a man like Michael if her mother had anything to do with it.

A car horn sounded ahead. Eleanor stretched her neck and strained her eyes to look up ahead in the fading light as the day came to an end. Someone had taken their vehicle off the road and onto the embankment. More loud beeps followed before all of a sudden, the car ahead jerked forward. Eleanor copied the more, rolling slowly along the road before picking up speed with the now moving traffic. She didn’t know how this had happened but all of a sudden, it was like the traffic jam had just evaporated. Running late, she chose not to try to find out and was just happy to be underway. Sometimes these things just happened!

She smiled for the first time today.


Eleanor had memorised the map before setting out and had travelled through here the other month when Michael sent her own on assignment to criss-cross large parts of Southern England like his first wife. She knew exactly where was going and had only relied on what had been said to her at the hospital she had recently left for directions for appearance’s sake. This was far away from her home outside Andover and place of work inside that town, and nowhere near her ‘native’ London either: that city where she was supposed to have been born and where her (taught) accent denoted her as being from. Up the A419 and onto the A361 along that latter road which skirted Gloucestershire and Oxfordshire and then onto her destination at RAF Little Rissington further northwards.

There were points along the main roads and elsewhere far from them where she had stopped and dropped off supplies for those that would one day come to use them such as they were now. There were messages to be left or exchanged with apparent strangers that she ran into as well. The giant RAF Fairford was a little way to the west and the slightly-smaller RAF Brize Norton lay east of the A361. She’d been near to those places as well, often with Michael as the married couple took country strolls or went camping… along with their cameras.

Little Rissington had also been somewhere she had been near to as well and it was there where she was heading this evening. Other traffic nearby disappeared and there were one of those panicked civilians she had first heard about and then seen anymore. The emptiness on the road now was rather odd and her eyes darted around. It was only paranoia, Eleanor had to soon remind herself; there was no one getting ready to come for her. Michael told her that repeatedly and she had listened to everything he taught her. He knew what he was doing and if it wasn’t for what he wanted from a wife, she would had wholly respected him for the patience he had shown in doing that.

But, he was a bastard who raped her when he felt like it.

They were waiting for her arrival at Little Rissington and this time there would be no sneaking around outside of the grounds of that American-ran facility while taking distant photographs of fixed defences and making maps of the surrounding countryside. Like back in Swindon and before that at RAF Lyneham, Eleanor was to be invited into the military facility without any clue from those there that she was serving the interests of their enemy who they were at war with.


As it was at Ludgershall where she had been since yesterday and departed from this morning on her long journey, those at Little Rissington were looking outwards for a direct attack. They couldn’t comprehend how through boring bureaucratic means, entry of their enemy could take place. The American airmen on guard carried their assault rifles openly and Eleanor noted a machine gun pit sited in plain view. There were dogs too, mean and nasty-looking animals who barked at her car and were also led around it by those who held their leashes tight. She got out on demand to produce her documentation and so that a quick search could be made of the vehicle.

Those on security detail were polite but they clearly were in no mood to slack off. She was left under guard as a phone call was made from inside the booth at the entrance. The airmen around her had their eyes upon her and while she assumed that naturally most would be looking at her as all men in uniform away from home look at a woman, they would also be thinking of ways to kill her too. These men would have been briefed that the security threat was very real and that anyone could be that threat. Half a dozen pairs of eyes were on her and half a dozen guns could be pointed her way too at the slightest hint of her giving trouble.

Her identification checked out. She had official business here and that was confirmed with those inside. The lieutenant in-command handed her back her paperwork and gave her a visitor badge. An airman was assigned to go with her inside Little Rissington and she was told that he would be with her at all times. Eleanor thanked him and then asked permission to get back into her vehicle; that was granted and the sergeant joined her. He started giving directions to her the moment he was inside and told her when the medical director’s office was along with the correct route to follow. There was no idle chit-chat from the sergeant, he was just straight to the point.

Part of her wanted to laugh at how she had got in here when it was Soviet spies these people were looking for. However, she also knew just how much work had gone into making her entry happen and none of that was funny in any way.


The airbase was on the edges of the Cotswolds. Eleanor wasn’t aware of any Spetsnaz activity due to take place here though she and Michael weren’t the only GRU people in Britain who had prepared the way for their arrival and then been unpleasantly surprised when far more came than expected as the Cold War had turned hot with the sudden speed that it had. Fairford where B-52s were to and had been sent to operate from in wartime and Brize Norton where the British had many aerial refuelling tankers flying from were due to see some attention paid to them that they wouldn’t like. However, that wasn’t to be the case with Little Rissington as far as she knew. Maybe Michael hadn’t told her, maybe he didn’t know: she did consider that as well.

Either way, she was glad. Today wouldn’t be the first time she would come here as part of her duties with the NHS support being given to Transition to War, not her other duties serving her country of birth. Eleanor hardly wanted to be present during an attack made by her comrades. The threat of nuclear strikes occurring through Southern England caused by the Rodina was one thing but Spetsnaz shooting her was something she feared more.

It was a standby military base due to come alive in wartime just as it had done. Little Rissington had a pair of long runaways that could take the largest of American (and other NATO) transport aircraft so that combat casualties could be brought directly here to the extensive hospital facilities on-site. The medical capabilities available were excellent and would serve those who were given aero-evacuation from Western Europe for urgent treatment away from the war being raged there. A few had already arrived at Little Rissington just as had been the case at Lyneham too – where they were sent to the civilian hospital in Swindon – yet many, many more were due to arrive soon.

Eleanor was one of those who had been called upon to give external support to assisting with dealing with those casualties. The job that she did for the NHS meant dealing with administrational matters concerning medical supplies. She had been manoeuvred into it like Michael had been into his policeman’s job due to the freedom of movement and support to NATO military forces in wartime that it gave; those who had been in the way for both of them had had accidents in a few cases though generally something less dramatic had been done to advance Eleanor and Michael. The Americans and the Royal Army Medical Services had their own people and their own necessary supplies but they knew that once the wounded servicemen arrived in Britain after being evacuated there would be a lot of them and what they had would come under pressure. That was where civilian help came in. Medicines, technical equipment, blood – it was all going to be needed and transferred from where it was to another place. That involved paperwork and the clerical tasks such as physical counts and checks on conditions of such supplies. To those end-users, doctors and nurses, they would be focused on saving lives and not give a thought to someone like Eleanor and the others doing the same job as her. The military people would be grateful too and unsuspecting.

Michael and those in the GRU who had decided this was where they would place one of their officers living under a false identity were certain that there would be no suspicion of Eleanor nor her movements. She would be free to travel and welcomed wherever she went. The travel would give her other opportunities as well to ‘service’ hidden radio antennas across the countryside to broadcast messages to those fellow countrymen of hers.

Eleanor had less faith that she would be completely unsuspected as a civilian going into military bases and travelling between them when there was a war going on. She knew the enemies of the Rodina weren’t fools. Yet, so far, there had been no sign of anyone paying any more attention to her than expected. She went about her business here this evening at Little Rissington and handed over lists of medical supplies to the medical director here – a US Air Force officer – as well as making notes on his expected needs especially when it came to blood stocks; many American servicemen were going to need blood to replace what explosives and bullets had forced them to lose.

Once done, it would be a drive back to Ludgershall for Eleanor tonight. She would be going across the North Wessex Downs and onto Salisbury Plain. That was where the larger than expected number of Spetsnaz where – too many for the two of them to assist on their own and therefore Michael had called in help that Eleanor wasn’t so sure about –, those who were looking for those American nuclear-tipped missiles. She had a radio broadcast to make to them using a hidden transmitter placed in the countryside, not one in her vehicle being driven to places such as Lyneham and Little Rissington. Michael had passed on some information to her using an unwilling and unsuspecting source and that needed to go to the Spetsnaz.

Eleanor knew that it was those GLCM missiles, the Cruise that the presence of so many people in Britain were very unhappy with before the war, were all that mattered. What else the Spetsnaz did was actually unimportant and only a distraction, even as deadly and destructive as it was.

Those missiles had to be found and destroyed.



Orphans

Sergeant Banks and the Home Service Force volunteers he was with had left RAF Greenham Common early this morning with orders to return to Reading. The rifle section was to return to their parent platoon and Banks himself was to be added to the platoon leadership alongside the other sergeant assigned. He had acknowledged his orders though had been a little concerned at the personnel dynamics of that. Sergeant Wilkins was the platoon sergeant with the Reading Platoon and Banks could imagine how he would feel if he was in Wilkins’ shoes and another sergeant was assigned alongside him when there was only the need for one: it would reflect badly upon his fellow sergeant.

However, before they had packed-up and left Greenham Common, new orders came and those were to stay near the Berkshire town of Newbury instead of returning ‘home’.

Banks was to retain command of the section as it would remain semi-independent and detached away from the rest of the platoon. He was to take them up to the Chieveley junction where the M4 met the A34 and take over supporting Thames Valley Police in manning the roadblock that stopped access to the motorway. The TA unit there was being freed-up for other duties and the police needed soldiers with them. So, it wasn’t back to Reading for the ten men under Banks’ command, but rather to move just a few miles away from where they were yesterday.

They had ‘been orphaned’, as one of them put it.


The orphans were here tonight to support the police. Those policemen were stopping civilians from entering the motorway at the crossroads junctions next to the small Chieveley motorway service station. Cars and other vehicles were seeking to get onto the motorway from both the north and the south of the junction after making their way past or avoiding other obstacles thrown in their way nearby. This was as far as even the cleverest of motorists could get. No one was to use the motorway apart from those approved to do so. The M4 linked London to the south of Wales with all of those important military installations that lay near to the course of the road.

It was closed to civilians: there were to be no exceptions made at all.

Banks had been told not to have the HSF men patrolling the police blockade directly and pointing their weapons at civilians. There was no need to inflame the situation any more than it already was. Instead, the volunteer soldiers stayed out of the way. They had their weapons at-hand and were ready to move at a moment’s notice from where he kept them underneath the motorway flyover which was above the roundabout underneath, but not alongside the policemen. That left the centralised, ready to move outwards when needed, and also gave him the chance to better get to know these men.

Corporal MacGregor was still a tosser. Nothing had changed with Banks’ opinion of the section leader. The NCO still believed that shooting civilians who wouldn’t do what they were told was the best solution. Just a few should be shot, he had said, and the rest would fall into line. Talking to man’s second-in-command about MacGregor, Banks had learnt that this was all recent behaviour from the man. He wasn’t normally like this. Something had set him off and was causing him to talk like this. It was odd and unexpected. However, Banks was assured that it was all talk and not likely to happen. Well… MacGregor’s new sergeant still considered the man a tosser regardless.

As to Lance Corporal Turner (MacGregor’s second), Banks liked him. He had faith in the man; he knew that he was a very capable soldier. The former airman had risen high in the RAF as part of the ground support forces before retirement and chosen to serve within the HSF out of a sense of duty. There were always some in the HSF who spoke of duty, patriotism and Queen & Country with pretty speeches that Banks doubted but not someone like Turner. This man wanted to be here and doing his bit.

The eight others in the ten-man section were all privates. This was the HSF and so they were a mixed bunch. Only two were former British Army soldiers with infantry experience; Banks found that the rest came from all over the place like he, MacGregor and Turner all did. They had stories to tell of their service in uniform and thoughts on the current ongoing situation with World War Three now a day old. They complained about what they were asked to do – which Banks didn’t mind; when soldiers don’t complain, that shows their morale is down not up and it is also rather disconcerting – but got to it. Each kept themselves and their weapons in good order. They needed food and water and to be told when they could sleep. None objected to Banks being here openly yet he was aware that maybe some had thoughts on that matter that weren’t too positive. He knew he’d get the best out of them if he needed them to do what they were here for and fight. As to individual character traits, those were mixed like their former ranks and service backgrounds.

Some stood out. There was Chalky (Private White), the former Royal Navy sailor, who had an interest in ancient military history: the Spartans and the Battle of Thermopylae were what he liked to talk about in passing to the other men. Big Ears (Private Rogers), who had served before in the Royal Signals, was trying to convince everyone to use the term ‘Speckles’ to refer to the Spetsnaz that posed a threat to the police here blocking access to the motorway or maybe trying to blow up the flyover; the others kept ribbing him by arguing that it would be best to call them ‘Spectacles’ or ‘Spangles’ or any other alliteration that they could think of other than Speckles. Private Miller, once with the Royal Electrical & Mechanical Engineers, sharpened his rifle bayonet to a fierce point and badgered the others (successfully) to do the same to theirs; he was ready to stick it into the belly of any Soviet solider… and make sure he gave it a fine series of twists too. Private Cartwright was one of those pair of former British Army infantrymen; he was the gunner for the Bren Gun that the section had and was a tempestuous chap who shut up the others when they spoke of nuclear war because he didn’t want to hear talk of that with the thought of his family dying in that.

Cartwright had ‘his Brenda’ – the Bren Gun, which was a light machine gun – and the other men, Banks included, had their SLR rifles. The weapons weren’t the most-modern but they didn’t have to be. They were all effective and were what the men all knew from their time in uniformed service. Yes, they, like Banks too, knew about the latest equipment in service and could use those, but such rifles had been issued to the regulars and part of the TA. Maintaining these weapons and using them if they were called upon to was second nature to them. A Bren Gun was a fine piece of equipment for laying suppressing fire. A SLR was easy to use and accurate. What more could be asked for than that?


It was getting late. Midnight was approaching and Banks yawned like everyone else awake. The police here were manning the roadblocks in shifts and Banks had his men on sleeping shifts too. Those awake needed to be ready to move in an instant and those asleep needed to be fast ready to chase after them too. Banks was ready to bring his men into any possible fight though he really didn’t want one either.

There was no sign of them being needed though.

He found the senior policeman at the roadblock facing south and the two of them each had a smoke, a cuppa (Banks brought them along) and a chat.

The police sergeant hadn’t been at Greenham Common cracking heads yesterday. He informed Banks of his displeasure at what he had heard had happened there and asked if the HSF section had been there; Banks told him that yes, they had been there just not involved in that. The response came that it shouldn’t have happened and whoever gave that order was a bloodthirsty bastard. There had been some civilians who had come here afterwards – just a few, mind – with the intention of driving back to London or anywhere else that the M4 would take them before being told they couldn’t use the motorway. Banks asked about the injuries the police sergeant had seen and the copper shook his head rather than give an answer. He didn’t want to go into it, he said after a moment’s pause, but those were civilians protesting against Cruise, not Soviet-supporting traitors as his bosses had decided that they were because they were there where Cruise was based on the eve of war. Banks’ return comment about how while it was unpleasant and there could have been a better approach taken rather than mounted police and the riot squad called-in, something had to be done now when Transition to War had begun had been cut off by a sharp rebuke from the man.

Banks hadn’t pressed the point any further. He certainly didn’t agree with what had happened – he wasn’t MacGregor after all –, he strongly disagreed in fact, and had been making that point, but the police sergeant had taken it the wrong way. The misunderstanding had occurred and there was no point in trying to reverse it. It could only bring further bad feeling. This policeman and those with him were those he was to work with. His life and those of his men might depend upon them.

He changed the subject.

Were the roadblocks further back from directly at the junction here doing a better job now than beforehand, Banks asked. Were they better screening who was getting this far?

Yes, the police sergeant answered. Since this evening and there were more men further up and down the A34 either side, the traffic flow of civilians had almost halted. Now there were policemen at the last entry & exit points to the main road before here and they were turning civilians off the road there. The deployment of his fellow policemen had changed to a much better layout than before: someone in-charge had made better use of their grey matter. Only military vehicles and those of civilian organisations taking part in TtW were coming near here now.

Banks asked about those civilians. Where were they coming from?

All over the place, he was told. Civilians were still trying to get far away from where they perceived as danger and that meant trying to use the motorway when it was being made loud-and-clear that it was closed. They were coming from Newbury and Basingstoke approaching from the south and trying to enter from the northern side they had travelled from parts of Oxfordshire. He had heard more than a few Cockney voices too, he added to Banks’ follow-up question about Londoners; the policeman wondered aloud if there was anyone left in London by now.

When Banks turned to asking about the police sergeant’s men and how they were doing, there was a lot that was said on that note too.

Thames Valley Police was overstretched and spread out all over the place supporting the war effort. They weren’t just here or had been at Greenham Common. The police sergeant said that his fellow coppers were all over Berkshire and beyond through Thames Valley Police’s operational area on TtW tasks. They were running roadblocks like this and also deployed to guard strategic national sites: the nuclear research establishments at Aldermaston and Burghfield (the MOD Police had been joined by civilian police), he believed, along with power and telecommunications distribution points. Nearby RAF Welford, that American ammunition depot, had more policeman beside the motorway exit to it who faced the danger of armed attack like those elsewhere. He didn’t think that policemen like him should be doing such things as they were very dangerous and Thames Valley police officers weren’t trained for what they faced. There were few armed officers and even then, those with guns could expect to be outgunned fighting the Soviet commandos everyone had been told where spread across the region. If any of those showed up here, he worried that he and the policemen with him would be long dead before Banks’ soldiers knew anything about it.

Banks started to assure him that his men were ready and would fight but again, he was cut-off. The policeman had someone to talk to about his troubles and wouldn’t stop. There clearly had been no one to listen to him and he was letting go. The police sergeant here must have felt orphaned like the HSF section did as they were out in the middle of nowhere and felt in danger.

Did Banks know what was happening in Newbury and the smaller Thatcham that lay next to that town? Before any answer could be forthcoming from Banks, the police sergeant told him: a crimewave of epic proportions. Homeowners and those who ran small businesses had been among those who had fled from the area. Like those who lived in London, anyone who made their home near Greenham Common – long there before Cruise arrived – knew that they and their families faced imminent death in a nuclear war. Those who could leave already had. Those who were left behind were suffering after the police had all been called upon to do TtW tasks. Hardened criminals had been joined by many usually law-abiding citizens who had decided to take the opportunity to join in with the theft and looting taking place. There had been violence which came with this as those who hadn’t left tried to protect their property or that of others. The police sergeant had heard this all from the very few policemen left behind before they had too been pulled out of Newbury and Thatcham support the war effort. Whoever at the top was an idiot, he said, because how could the war be fought abroad if the country at home was in chaos?

Could Banks see that glow on the horizon there to the south?

Banks looked the way he was pointed to and noticed a faint orange light flickering there.

That was Newbury burning, he was told. Arson came with looting though there were more fires burning because people who couldn’t get fuel for their cars were stealing it from others and accidents happened: he referenced his own cigarette butt on the ground and said that it only took one of them and some idiot siphoning petrol out of a car. Where was the fire brigade? TtW had called for fire engines to leave the cities and also major towns like Newbury across the nation. The government didn’t want to see them lost – they were a strategic national asset, Banks was told, like Aldermaston – in nuclear fire. The fire engines were in villages all across the countryside. Therefore, Newbury was going to burn with no one to stop it.

Banks said that someone was going to sort this out. Those at the top weren’t utter fools. They wouldn’t let a whole town burn down.

The police sergeant laughed at him. A big, hearty laugh. Like Banks was a naïve and deluded fool.

They had bigger things to worry about than that and, anyway, they were idiots. They hadn’t thought through the consequences of what they had done in preparing the country for war as they had done and then seen the effects of that once it had started.

Newbury would still be burning by the morning, Banks was assured.

[James G]

The Third Day


Disguise

Guards Major Tarasov was looking over his maps of the Wiltshire countryside when his deputy came on the radio with an urgent communication. The captain reported that two American jeeps were spotted approaching the Spetsnaz group’s position. They were coming down the road almost straight towards them. The open-top vehicles contained no heavy weapons that could be seen and there were seven men within them. Permission was asked by the captain to open fire upon them and take prisoners for interrogation; time was short, Tarasov’s eager second-in-command reminded his superior in that infuriating manner that he was such an expert at.

Nothing else had worked so far in finding the Gryphons which they were here to hunt for. Yesterday’s intelligence had been just as faulty as what had come upon finding those American missiles the day before that. Short of any other solution, and frustrated at all other failures, Tarasov gave confirmation to the request.

Moments later, two rifle cracks could be faintly heard in the distance by those with keen ears and listening for them. Far louder was the audible screech of vehicle brakes then a series of crashes and bangs: the jeeps had been brought to a violent halt. Birds sprung from trees across the countryside in a flurry of panic that betrayed the nearby violence. Silence came for a second or two. Tarasov held the radio receiver expectantly and then his deputy made his report: “Vehicles stopped.”

Tarasov took the main body of his men off to where those vehicles had been stopped in the manner that they had.


The captain thrust himself forward once Tarasov arrived to speak before any of his own subordinates could. They weren’t going to pre-empt him anyway for fear of his retaliation but that was hardly the point; Tarasov’s second had to be out front.

Yes, if Tarasov could see a way of getting rid of him, he would.

Snipers had taken the initial shots with their trusty Dragunovs being used against the drivers of the jeeps. One had had his head obliterated, the second had been struck in the upper torso as the shot against him had been just off the mark. Those two killed men had been hit as they slowed their jeeps down in response to one of Tarasov’s men standing in the middle of the road waving his arms beside his motorcycle while wearing his stolen policeman’s uniform. The trick had worked better before, getting vehicles to stop and question what was going on, yet in this instance the Americans had only cautiously slowed down. It hadn’t mattered though: the distraction had been enough to allow for a slowing of the jeeps to give the snipers an opening to shoot with success. The lead vehicle had been crashed into by the following jeep. Both had come off the road with the desired results of men killed and injured in the crash and no time for a radio call to be made by the Americans. There had been a short firefight – again, one conducted in haste and not set up perfectly – where a couple of survivors of the crash had engaged assailants moving against them when they were still trying to sort themselves out and work out what had happened.

That soldier of Tarasov’s, the one wearing the disguise of a policeman (its owner killed yesterday), had been killed along with four of the Americans due to the sniping, the crash and the short ground engagement. Another one of the Spetsnaz group was injured and so too were two more Americans: the injures to all, including Tarasov’s man, were going to be fatal.

There was also one unharmed American who had been captured unhurt when trying to scramble away through nearby trees.

Tarasov gave instructions that the captain was to make sure that the road was cleared quickly of all signs of what had happened as best as possible. The wrecks of both jeeps were to be dragged away into the trees along with bodies, discarded ammunition and anything else. Haste was needed more than thoroughness. To a casual observer, there should be no sign of anything having happened here; only those who chose to look would be able to gather an idea of what had occurred and, by then, the Spetsnaz would be gone.

Meanwhile, he set off to see those injured and uninjured Americans that his men had captured.


The uninjured man pulled into the trees for interrogation was a senior airman – a rank that Tarasov was told was similar to a yefreytor, between a private and a sergeant – who was under the mistaken belief that he was in control of this situation. These were the last moments of his life yet he didn’t have any comprehension of that.

Tarasov stood back and observed as his professionals got to work. The repeated statements from the prisoner of his name, his rank and his service number were cut off with a series of fists and boots to shut him up. A gravely-injured sergeant was dragged up to where the senior airman was and he was forced to watch that man’s life be taken from him in a gruesome manner. Would the prisoner like to talk now?

No.

He now suffered himself. Tarasov didn’t shrink back nor look away. It was horrible what happened but he stood here all through it like everyone else did. This was his responsibility.

Amazingly, the prisoner still wouldn’t talk about what he knew. He started to repeat the same old tired lines with his name, rank and service number. The pain that he was in would have been excruciating yet he had some heart to him. Tarasov didn’t want to admire the man but he had to. He would have talked after this.

The second injured man was brought forward. Again, the senior airman was asked if he would talk for if he didn’t, this man would be killed in front of him. There was a flicker of surrender that came for a moment in the eyes of the prisoner. Tarasov saw it and knew he wasn’t alone in witnessing this. It had been seen in the faces of other men, those in Afghanistan. When the first injured man was killed, the prisoner hadn’t believed that they would happen. When he was about to see someone else helpless brought before him and killed though, then there would come the crack in the will of the most-strongest men. No one wants to see the defenceless hurt.

Yet this prisoner still refused to talk. It was quite a shock but it could be managed. Everyone would always break in the end.

Tarasov’s men started to hurt the injured airman first class. They made him scream, they knew how to do that. It was bloody what they did too. The prisoner’s eyes were held open and his face was pushed into some of the mess that was his comrade. He then screamed for it to stop.

He’d talk, only if they stopped hurting his friend and let him die in peace.


Tarasov left his lead intelligence man, an experienced senior lieutenant, to conduct the interrogation now that the prisoner had broken. He went back to where the captain was beside the road and checked on the progress. The men there had worked hard and done nothing that they hadn’t done before. The wrecks of the jeeps were the hardest of all to remove from sight but doable when the men put their backs into it. They didn’t need to be well hidden, just rolled out of sight. It had to be done quick.

The captain had left spotters out, his snipers, to watch for anyone else coming this way. The concern was that while they were busy doing what they were, someone else would stumble upon the scene and see what was being done. If that potential witness wasn’t stopped and dealt with, they would tell others. It was best though to do everything else before someone else made an appearance though: more bodies and vehicles to get rid of… leading to the possibility of someone witnessing that too.

They could be here all morning!

Those already dead were examined. Their uniforms were checked and anything found upon them in terms of paperwork, documents or identification retrieved. This had already been done with the vehicles. It was confirmed that these were men with the United States Air Force’s radar calibration, security police and RED HORSE engineers. They were a long way away from any fixed location and the captain told Tarasov that he believed that they were part of one of the Gryphon missile convoys. Tarasov asked where was the proof of that in terms of evidence rather than a gut feeling. That caught his second-in-command off guard and he had no answer for that.

Smiling to himself, Tarasov knew that the prisoner would confirm that either way.

One of the bodies from the crash had been burnt afterwards. Tarasov didn’t envy his men who had to move that body then throw it in a ditch to be covered with dirt. News was brought to him about that corpse and its uniform. Tarasov was told that the man was wearing the uniform of a British para-military organisation, that being the Royal Observer Corps.

For such a man to be with the Americans encountered meant that there was something more to this destroyed two jeep-convoy than first thought. Tarasov went back to where the prisoner was talking. He needed to find out what was going on.


Most of the work was done. The prisoner had been drained of everything useful. They were waiting for Tarasov’s permission to finish off the senior airman now that he had nothing useful to give them. But, he did.

“What did he tell you?”

“He knows very little. What he does know, we got out of him.”

“So…?”

“They are from the American Air Force but with an air defence unit recently arrived from Texas. They were scouting for sites where anti-aircraft rockets could be placed on the Salisbury Plain. That was all that he knew. The captain who led them knew everything and he’s dead along with the first lieutenant as well.

When they got to Little Cheverell, which is down the road from here, Sir, they were to meet some British who would lead them to a possible firing location for when their air defence unit arrived with its radars and launchers. The prisoner is an engineer so only knew very little. He’s begging for death now.”

Tarasov’s intelligence officer seemed content with what he had heard.

“Did he mention the Briton with them?”

“No.” Utter shock was instantly written across the senior lieutenant’s face; he thought he had gotten everything from the prisoner.

“I didn’t think so.” Tarasov shook his head. “Go back again and get the truth from him.”

Tarasov knew what the Royal Observer Corps was and their mission. There was no way that the presence of such a man here represented the truth. Someone was up to something, playing a complicated game of deception and disguising their own men. As if a civilian volunteer who dealt with reporting on the after-effects of nuclear explosions would be with an American air force anti-aircraft scouting detachment looking for firing sites? That was ridiculous!

That dead British man was a spy. The Americans he was with were spies as well. No wonder why the prisoner was so keen to die and not reveal what they were doing; spies didn’t like to have their plans revealed! There was something afoot here. The attack against the two jeeps, though conducted without planning and in a hasty fashion, had opened up something.

Tarasov hoped that whatever he had come across would allow him to find those missing Gryphons. All intelligence from distant GRU sources sending coded radio signals had given him nothing. Human intelligence from the liar who was the prisoner (was he really just an enlisted man who knew nothing or a spy in disguise?), plus whatever could be discerned from the captured intelligence material in terms of documents, surely would be of better use than that.

Where were those missiles being hidden and what did these people who his Spetsnaz men had caught have to do with that? Tarasov was sure that his men would find out when the interrogation of the prisoner recommenced. He just wished that they had more than one man to talk too, they had been too eager to kill one of the wounded and the other was now deceased too.

Hindsight was great but Tarasov would have to work with what he had.



Coincidence

Lucy Hunt hadn’t managed to leave Winchester yesterday and return to Bath. The death of Hanna – Hanna Feiersinger: born Auberg in Austria, 20th January 1963; died Winchester in the UK, 15th July 1987 – here in the Hampshire town at the police headquarters building had kept her and Jack late. The chief constable had promised to arrange for a B-&-B (on the Hampshire Police account, to be reimbursed later by MI-5) but then events in Winchester as it got late distracted everyone and that wasn’t arranged in time. Rather than sleep at the police offices on sofas, Jack had talked the chief constable into having two of his officers put Lucy and he up for the night here and they could leave in the morning. A pair of volunteers were found, those browbeaten into such a duty, and so they had both been found somewhere far more comfortable than inside the busy building to spend the night.

There was a WPC who had a two-bedroom flat nearby and Lucy stayed with her. Jessica’s sister was in the Royal Navy and down at Portsmouth so Lucy had ended up there. Getting some sleep had been difficult though. Sirens, car alarms and burglar alarms had sounded all night across Winchester as the crimewave hitting countless other towns had come here. Lucy had ended up talking with her host through most of the night until the criminals finally gave up and got some sleep themselves in the early hours. With only a few hours of rest, Lucy was left grumpy the following morning but she had learnt a lot by talking with Jessica all night about events that had gone on the evening before when the arrested young woman had been in police custody. Jessica liked to talk; Lucy was trained to listen… and ask the right questions too so as to tease out more details.

Earlier this morning, after calling Jack who was staying at the home of the custody sergeant who’d been on duty when Hanna had been held – it really wasn’t a coincidence that he was with that man and his wife for the night –, Lucy met with him back at the police headquarters. She had no change of clothes with here in Winchester and had been lent some by her host in an act of kindness. Lucy drunk more than a few cups of coffee and tried to be less snappy than she knew she was, but it was difficult not to be. She’d slept for a precious three hours and wasn’t happy to still be in Winchester. Things could have been far worse and she’d been in more uncomfortable states – anyone who joined MI-5 to have a good time was going to be in for a sharp disappointment; ad hoc overnight stays in strange place happened a lot – yet she wasn’t happy.


Jack was though: “Good morning. Get some food in you; it’s good here.”

The canteen was busy with police officers and civilian staff buzzing around. Most of them had been up all night too and she was sure she looked as knackered as they did. Everyone looked unhappy, everyone but Jack.

Lucy got herself a snack – she’d had something for breakfast when with her overnight host Jessica already – but focused more on coffee. When she returned, Jack was eager to talk. He kept his voice low and leaned across to her after darting his eyes around to see who was close by. Lucy was sure that he knew just as well as her that police officers were trained to be curious and so such behaviour would be noticed. He looked like he wanted to whisper so as to not be overheard. It looked secret and conspiratorial.

Then, after a second or two, she understood: he did want everyone to notice. He wanted them to try to listen and to talk to others about the two spooks having a private conversation in the middle of the headquarters canteen and worrying about someone listening in (just not being able to listen in though!).

Clever.

“The custody sergeant was a gold mine. He couldn’t sleep; he wanted to get back to the station but his wife wouldn’t let him. He talked to me instead. Everyone who went in to see Hanna when she was in custody or even spoke to her in passing while she was in the station, he knew about. That’s his job, to know those things, and he takes it very seriously.”

“He mentioned a Mike, yes?”

Jessica had been just as talkative to Lucy.

“Mike from Rhodesia.”

“Mike from Zimbabwe, Jack.”

“Him.”

“Him.”

“We’ll want to talk to him today.”

“I agree.”

The two of them whispered at length about such a person.


Hampshire Police’s Special Branch team was small though not insignificant. The presence of military bases which faced a terrorism threat plus the location of major seaports along the coast where there were more issues that such specialist police were needed for gave need for them. Jessica worked for them – as a typist despite what should have been her job; yes, sexism was alive and well in Eighties Britain – and had filled Lucy in overnight on some of the personalities. Several of the officers had been encountered by her and Jack yesterday as they had been with Hanna when she was first brought here.

Today, the spooks from MI-5 talked with all of them. Their investigation into Hanna and what she was up when arrested to hadn’t ended with the young woman’s death; neither had Lucy and Jack’s initial inquiry relating to that that they both no had spiralled into a treason angle as well either.

From their offices, Jack was on the phone again to Bath getting updates on what more had been found out overnight through Central Registry files. Those had either left their London headquarters on Gower Street to be taken elsewhere or, as Lucy suspected, a backup of them was already stored away from the capital somewhere hidden. Wherever the information came from, there was a little solid intelligence which arrived on Richard Young – the man who had gifted Hanna his vehicle – though most came from police and vehicle licensing sources. Lucy herself spoke with the coroner about how Hanna had died before making a show (as Jack told her to) in seemed frustrated in front of others at apparently what little she had been able to gleam from him. In fact, the coroner had been very helpful, but the police officers and others here were already talking among themselves and the intention was for that to continue.

When someone had news to share with another, most often the second person would be keen to share a secret back. Both Lucy and Jack would talk to Jessica and the custody sergeant again and were also looking for others who wanted to be helpful in more than an official capacity. It was all about working people. It took time but the results would pay off in the end. Jack had reminded her that when faced with allegations alleging misconduct by outsiders, such as beating prisoners or taking payoffs, the police would close ranks and be uncooperative. The suspicion of treason, while there was a war on no less, would certainly change that position though. It had to be handled carefully, but was something that he expected to be done. Lucy had agreed, though found that they didn’t have enough time.

A call came into the Special Branch offices and they were needed to go out into the field again. Jack was trying to put a stop to that, arguing with Aaron back at Bath over the phone that they were onto something bigger when Lucy reminded him that their person of interest by the name of Mike was already on-scene.

What a coincidence!


Coincidences don’t exist in the world of intelligence. There is no such thing. Everything is related. This happens and so that happens. Rampant paranoia, others would say, but they didn’t work in such a field. The same thing doesn’t happen twice for no reason. There is also a relation between related events.

There was a village named Wherwell that lay in the Hampshire countryside near to Andover. Between the village and the big town there was the Herewood Forest. On the way up there from Winchester, a short distance to cover away from the still smouldering ruins of part of the town where they had been overnight and through early today when it was hit with crime-related fires, Jack had the map out while Lucy drove. He’d made one of his usual off-the-cuff remarks, this time about women and maps instead of women drivers. He was a bastard but a bastard who’d been forced into a choice of which he had liked neither. Lucy didn’t see it as a victory, not even a little one, but it certainly cheered her up.

His own prejudices caused him discomfort and that was good enough for her.

Jack told her that the small forest was somewhere noted before the war stated as a possible Spetsnaz location for a base camp of theirs. TA soldiers from the rifle company out of Winchester with 2 WESSEX had already been in there though Jack spoke aloud of how he was of the understanding that those volunteer soldiers were focused upon the M3 motorway linking London with the South Coast at Southampton. He added, before she could say anything, that no, the two of them were under no circumstances going to go into there even under police escort. They were going to Wherwell where there had been a shooting incident.

The way to that village took them through Stockbridge again, where Hanna had been caught at the roadblock yesterday. It was a bit of a roundabout route and Lucy drove at a reasonable speed. She had the windows down because it was a warm day and soon to get rather hot. Apparently, under Transition to War, the national weather was a secret and there were no forecasts being broadcast. From the moment she had got up this morning, Lucy knew that today was going to be a scorcher. Summer had finally arrived… well, for today anyway. ‘Campaigning season’ for armies this was: long, bright days. Lucy couldn’t imagine running around playing soldiers in such weather. In the car under the shelter of the roof it was hot enough with the sun in the clear skies above. She took a water bottle from a bag – driving one-handed along a straight stretch of road – and ignored Jack’s tut in her direction. She knew he’d be thirsty himself and had said back at the police headquarters for him to bring some water with him. He hadn’t listened to her remark about not relying on others and dehydrating in the heat.

Stuff him then, let him die of thirst… metaphorically, of course.

As they got near, Jack gave her final directions into the village and then she saw the police, some Land-Rovers with TA soldiers around them and also the posse of armed civilians she’d been told were here.

Where was Mike though?


A couple of hours ago, some locals from this village and others nearby had opened fire on men in uniform which they had seen in the fields between the forest and Wherwell. They’d been out on patrol, these civilians, acting as an unofficial militia. They wore no uniforms of their own apart from a blue cloth as an identifying armband. The TA man who briefed Lucy and Jack on this said that these men (and a few women too!) considered themselves patriots. None were in the TA nor the Home Service Force. They’d heard rumours about ‘Russian commandos’ being active in Hampshire and set up patrols. Men had been seen sneaking around and shots taken at them. Those shots had been returned though the posse of farmers, gamekeepers and concerned citizens seemed to have come off best. They’d had two of their men killed, another pair badly injured but claimed five dead in return.

They had the bodies of those they had killed too, those dressed in uniforms that had initially caused some concern but after a little bit of work done were seen to be containing the bodies of those who weren’t supposed to be wearing them just as the locals had feared.

“Lucy,” Jack grabbed her arm to get her attention, “do you see the guns these chaps are carrying?”

“I do indeed.” Lucy had been focused on those. “Where did they get them all from?”

Jack didn’t answer her; a TA officer behind them both spoke up instead. “All legally held, even those semi-automatic rifles there. I’m not so sure about some of the add-ons, with the flash- and noise-suppressors, when it comes to legal means I mean, but the guns are legal.”

Jack and the captain spoke about the weapons and the posse. The latter was the company second-in-command of the riflemen on the motorway. The introductions consisted of Jack saying Lucy and he were from ‘a government department’ and the captain understanding at once.

“Ma’am,” the captain was unfailingly polite, gallant almost in how he spoke, “are you by chance what the Americans would call a ‘gun-nut’?”

Jack laughed; Lucy shook her head.

“I see you staring and I thought I’d ask. Want me to ask if you can try one out?”

Lucy decided she didn’t like him. He was making some sort of joke at her expense. Why? She ignored him.

Instead, Lucy watched the swagger of the locals as they stood about with their weapons. Jack was talking with the soldier about what exactly had happened and there was mention made of the rumours swirling around about foreign soldiers in England killing innocent civilians and blowing things up. This was a bit much in terms of the reaction to that, but Wherwell wasn’t the only place the captain had heard of civilians with guns. In fact, the TA was getting rather concerned. Civilians might have good intentions but they were quick to open fire as shown here. They had been correct in their identification of those they shot today but wouldn’t always be. He was worried about his own men being shot at in the same manner.

Lucy went and spoke with some of the civilians; she left the briefing that had been going on behind plus Jack and his new friend too. She spotted what looked like a farmer’s wife and chose her. Lucy gave the impression that she was a police officer and the woman was a bit apprehensive at first but she got on her good side quick enough and let her open up. The farmer’s wife had a lot to say about ‘goddamn foreigners’ and how she’d shot one herself; Lucy believed her. She’d done it because these foreigners were killing innocent people rather than fighting at the front, because they were murderers and not soldiers. There was no death penalty any more for caught spies; if they (Lucy) wanted to take her to court, she’d argue her case in person. So, no, she wasn’t sorry that she and the others with her hadn’t left anyone alive to talk. The shotgun? It belonged to her husband. His new, imported rifle? Oh, he had a license for that: nice, wasn’t it?

Though she worked counter-intelligence for MI-5, Lucy knew full well about how stolen weapons like these were coveted by terrorists from Northern Ireland. They bought what they could, but, naturally, would prefer not to pay for guns. These were all legally-held here. Weapons like them were taken in thefts from across the country on a regular basis to end up in terrorist hands. Today, they had been used by an improvised home guard.

Behind her, Lucy heard Jack ask the captain if he knew if a policeman named Inspector Dickenson was here? He’d heard he was present; could the captain point him out if he knew who he was because Jack had heard that the senior officer with Hampshire Police was working with the TA.

Such remarks made Lucy want to turn around and pay attention more openly though she controlled herself. Jack was doing his bit of theatre and didn’t need a gawping audience.

“You mean Mike?”

“Yes, that’s him.”

“He’s over there. He works public order and has been working with us as the police man roadblocks along the motorway.”

“Thank you, Captain.” A pause. “Lucy, we should talk to the inspector.”

On command, Lucy turned around and then followed her superior’s instruction.


Jack did his thing. The male-bonding game was something he did well. MI-5 had had Lucy do a lot in her time with them and that included flirting with some people at times to get information. Her husband, whom she had spoken to about these things – he was with the Security Service too but names / operational details had been left out – because she was honest with him like tried to be with her, was never happy to hear that though knew it was necessary. Fluttering eyelids, brushing her hair back over her face etc. was one way to get people to talk but Jack had his own way. He was making another new friend.

Lucy stood back. She was watching Jack and Mike talk, seemingly content to be left out of the serious conversation between men, while taking everything in.

This was their man.

She knew it before she met him and observed his mannerisms and his whole pantomime he was putting on. The cool and calm demeanour. How helpful he was. How those around him flocked to him due to how reasonable and reliable he appeared to be. How trustworthy he seemed be.

Lucy recalled what Jessica, the WPC back in Winchester, had said, and then also what Jack had been told by that custody sergeant: both police officers had spoken of how Mike had been alone with Hanna yesterday evening when he didn’t have to be. Bath had given them some more about him and the alarm bells hadn’t stopped ringing since.

Now, with the coincidence of him being here, near these bodies of Soviet Spetsnaz, in anything but a coincidence, was as if someone was hitting her on the side of the head with such a bell. Like that bell weighted a hundred tons!

This was their man. This was whom had gotten rid of Hanna.

Now, where to go with that?

Who really was he and what did he have to do with the Soviet Spetsnaz?



Vigilantes

Sergeant Zobnin had volunteered to go back; the man who he took with him because he couldn’t go alone hadn’t volunteered, but that wasn’t really the point. The two of them were given a message wishing them good luck by Captain Panchenko and told to keep in contact. What was left of the Spetsnaz team after two bloody assaults over the previous nights against fixed targets and then the mess that had occurred this morning meant that they were at half-strength. They moved onwards, deeper into the forest so they could make sure that they weren’t followed before leaving on the other side; Zobnin kept Viktor Bogdanovich back to observe those who seemed set to follow and also slow them down if possible.

Both men were now on the southwestern edge of the Harewood Forest and looking at all those gathered out there in the open. They had their assault rifles and radios with them, though were making use at the moment of a pair of binoculars. Examination was made of those gathered there where five of their fellow soldiers had been slain in an ambush several hours ago and now everyone possible seemed to have turned up to have a look. Zobnin wished for a mortar and Viktor Bogdanovich had whispered that he wished he had his Dragunov with him. They were well-aware of the opportunity being missed.

No one noticed them… well, that was what each assured themselves of anyway.


When the spies made an appearance, Zobnin recognised them for what they were.

“Chekists.” Next to him, his comrade recognised them too.

A man and a woman who were dressed differently than anyone else present and carried no weapons, plus who moved with confidence shown, told the Spetsnaz that they were British spies from their KGB organisation. They went and talked to all of the people who were in-charge and weren’t stopped from moving freely like they did.

Their behaviour was just what Zobnin expected to see from spies who’d turned up afterwards to discover what was going on.

“Are they moving the bodies yet?”

Zobnin could have diverted his gaze to where his comrades had fallen but stayed with the important people, those who would make the decisions. Viktor Bogdanovich was here to assist him – two pairs of eyes were always better than one – and was free to look around better as he wasn’t as focused as Zobnin was.

“Not yet, Sergeant.” The reply was curt and Zobnin understood; the yefreytor with him was still raw at the deaths of their comrades in the manner that that had happened. “They have policemen taking photographs and doctors back again examining them. Yet, they remain rotting on the ground as if there is no respect due to them.”

“Remember your mission, remember your duty.”

While he warned Viktor Bogdanovich to not lose control, he was reminding himself too. Zobnin was just as angry as his comrade was. Their fellow soldiers lay dead there with flies all around them roasting out there under the early afternoon sunshine. They had not even been covered with a sheet and were now being poked and prodded with people travelling from all over to come and see them.

Like the spies did, he remained watching.

The woman interested Zobnin more than the man. She wasn’t greatly attractive yet her presence as a woman here kept his attention. He examined her figure, naturally, and then how she carried herself in the world of men she was in. The man who had come with her was clearly her superior and he gave her orders to follow him about. The spies had spoken to a military officer and then one of the senior uniform policemen. At one point, the four of them, the most important people present, had all been clustered together.

An opportunity missed indeed.

“The vigilantes are leaving, Sergeant.” A tut came from Zobnin’s comrade. “They are not going to come this way.”

“That is a shame.” On the way back, as they had travelled through the forest on the sports-style bicycles, the two of them had talked about getting vengeance upon those civilians in that mob, the vigilantes who had killed their comrades. That wasn’t the mission they had been given, but they had discussed doing it if they could work that into their mission.

Alas, that was not to be.

“We’ll see them again.”

“Yes, yes.” Zobnin placated the junior man. “Keep an eye on the soldiers, Viktor Bogdanovich.”

“I will.” Sweltering in the horrible heat like he was too, Zobnin’s comrade didn’t complain and just did what he was told: an excellent soldier to have alongside him.

While his comrade did that, Zobnin remained with his eyes on the spies. He’d prefer that the vigilantes would have come into the forest with the aim to trying to pick up the trail of the rest of the Spetsnaz team – impossible, he was certain of that – but if the spies came this way he would be happy to ‘welcome’ them. What concerned him was that the British soldiers present would start moving into the Harewood Forest. He had come here to give warning of that and also lay some traps for them though his earlier eagerness to return had been tempered by how many of them he had seen.

To escape from them if they were serious about coming in here, in strength and with a clear idea of what they were doing, wouldn’t be that easy. Viktor Bogdanovich gave no indication that they were though and so Zobnin remained studying the spies at distance and trying to imagine what exactly they were saying. His binoculars were fixed to his eyes and followed their progress.

He could only imagine that they were being told exactly what had occurred just outside the forest’s edge, there across those fields. He had seen it for himself, they were being told about it a couple of hours later.

Were, he asked himself, the two versions of the same tale going to be the same?


The shooting of Zobnin’s comrades shouldn’t have happened. It was an avoidable incident and those damn vigilantes had gotten lucky. It had been Lieutenant Nartov’s fault though it wasn’t the case that he would be regretting it now and worried about punishment for his error: his body was one of those out there.

The planned attack in the early hours of this morning against the military headquarters at Wilton had been called off late yesterday and there had been a change of mission where instead a raid had been conducted against an airfield. Middle Wallop had been that target with mortars fired for distraction purposes and then a strike team which had gone in to shoot aircrews for the light aircraft and helicopters there – all getting ready to go off to fight the Soviet Army in Germany – as well as some of those aircraft as well. Zobnin hadn’t been informed why the charge of target had occurred nor been consulted in that. It didn’t appear to have mattered anyway for Middle Wallop had been just as costly for his comrades as Boscombe Down had been on the first morning of the war: defending forces had refused to accept that they were beaten and fought back. Comrades of Zobnin had dropped dead from gunshots as armed men come from seemingly everywhere firing all sorts of weapons. An escape had been made through a pre-scouted route and efforts to follow the Spetsnaz had failed but the casualties had been dreadful.

They had split into two groups to move to a new location. The hidden vehicles had been uncovered and new uniforms donned making the Spetsnaz look like Spetsnaz no more. They had pretended to be police officers, a specialist team, and Zobnin was aware that through means unrevealed the correct route was taken to avoid others and there was also access to what should have been an encoded radio link.

However, when approaching the Harewood Forest, where they were meant to establish new hides as they shifted operational area eastwards, a problem had been encountered. There had been soldiers present unexpectedly and a halt had to be enforced. A helicopter was in the sky – from Middle Wallop maybe? – and the vehicles had to stop and be hidden from observation. Daylight had come and the soldiers nor the helicopter had gone away. Scouts had been sent out and one of them got lost; he couldn’t be left behind so had to be recovered. Problem after problem had come, one following another. Eventually though, the helicopter had gone and those troops had moved on. Zobnin hadn’t been told what they were up to apart from where it was discovered they had moved to was the area around the concealed route to reach the Harewood Forest. Panchenko had been calling Nartov’s group on the radio with urgent orders to get into cover before they were discovered. In addition, Zobnin had become aware that the lieutenant had several maps with him that Panchenko needed.

When Nartov had made his mistake, Zobnin had tried to stop him. Respectfully, he had urged his officer not to use the approach route into the forest that Panchenko had taken. The captain had sent word of unusual civilian activity there and expressed concern over being monitored at a distance. Nartov had refused to listen to his sergeant and told him that the civilians were harmless as well as not going to challenge the authority figures they saw in the uniforms that the Spetsnaz were wearing. He wouldn’t listen to Zobnin because he didn’t trust him. Zobnin had known that a lot of that came from his own mistakes beforehand yet it had been arrogance too.

That arrogance had cost Nartov his life but also four other men theirs as well.

A plethora of gunshots had rung out, so many of them well-placed from men who knew how to shoot and hit a target. Spetsnaz had gone down dead and injured. Zobnin had panic-fired back, joined by others too, and regretted it afterwards as he had lost his bearings and had no idea where the enemy was. The only escape had been to crawl on his belly out of the fire-zone. Nartov had gone back to ‘take care’ of an injured man – prisoners could not, under no circumstances fall into the hands of the British to be questioned – and been killed while doing so.

Zobnin had escaped with his life and been ashamed of how he had fled like he had even though he had had no choice. They were so used to ambushing others and in the panic of the ambush against them, he had felt responsibility despite knowing it was ultimately down to the dead Nartov.

That was why he had volunteered to come back, to make amends.


So… how much of that did the spies Zobnin was looking at know?

Did they know more than Zobnin too?

He assumed that they wouldn’t know about the difficult journey taken here from that bloodbath which had been that airfield but they would have to know far more about these civilians here with those weapons that they had put to use. Zobnin had been told before they had come to Britain that there were civilians who were allowed to have weapons for personal use, even military-grade ones, but those would be rounded up by the authorities before war began. A few less-capable guns might remain in the hands of some farmers maybe but no more than that. Whether what he had been told was wrong or something that had been delayed, didn’t matter. The people here had weapons. He had seen it yesterday when a group of civilians away to the west had been spotted travelling around carrying guns and Panchenko had denied Nartov permission to ambush them and seize those guns (time had been short) though not on the scale as what had happened here.

After he had returned and taken up his observation post ready to report on movements, he had seen the vigilantes for what they were. There were men and a few women there who all looked like they were rural inhabitants rather from big towns or the cities. They had been out for blood and must have acted out of vengeance for something else that had happened. Zobnin knew that the group of Spetsnaz he was with wasn’t alone and while what was done during their activities here in this country serving as part of the Soviet military was deemed justifiable, that wouldn’t be the view that those who lived here had. He had heard all the talk and the political lectures of the weak and decadent West; Britain was impotent, they had said. Well, he knew different. Their military forces weren’t and now he was seeing that their civilians weren’t either. He still wanted his own revenge upon those vigilantes for killing his comrades though, despite understanding why they had done what they had.

If only they had come this way…

The woman spy returned to his attention. He watched her as she took a plastic water bottle from her handbag and gulped its contents down. Another bottle – how much did she have in that small bag!? – was offered to her fellow spy though Zobnin watched him shake his head. He’d have that water! How he wished he’d brought some with him. Even in the shade that he was, he was drenched in sweat and the dryness of his mouth was outrageous.

They were standing with that policeman, the one who wore that uniform with the badges denoting rank so openly, and looking over a map spread across the front of a car. Yes, Zobnin wanted a mortar right now. To kill these three, and anyone else in the way here, would do his country a great service!

But he didn’t have such a weapon. Neither was that his mission. He and Viktor Bogdanovich were here to keep watching and ready to use the radio if the British came this way. Zobnin wasn’t sure how long he would be here but was ready to stay all afternoon and into the evening if he had to. Every moment that he did, his comrades got further away and he would have to catch up. Yet, they also escaped detection.

He stayed where he was. Watching. Waiting. Keeping still. Ready to react.

Zobnin would be here for quite a while today.



Overreacting

Sergeant Banks had set the frequency that the Thames Valley Police detachment at the roadblock were using into his own radio. It hadn’t been difficult to do – he was quite proud of himself though – and he could listen to what they were saying to one another. There already was a shared channel between him and the them, plus another for his Home Service Force soldiers, but he had wanted to hear their communications between themselves. He didn’t consider that he was spying upon them nor that he had done anything wrong. Yes, he hadn’t mentioned it to the senior policeman, but that wasn’t really the point. He considered that he had done the right thing. Yesterday, that police sergeant had said that he expected his men to be killed in an enemy attack against the motorway junction here and that Banks’ men wouldn’t be able to do anything to save them from a determined assault to blow up the flyover which carried the M4 motorway above the A34 main road.

Banks wasn’t going to let that happen. His men were on alert and active around the area; the ability to hear what the policemen were saying to one another was just another part of the defences here in his opinion. His thinking was that they might be slow to contact his men – not through malice; just… well… these things happen – and that could cost the policemen their lives.

It could also cost him and his HSF men their lives as well.


“Bravo Charlie, has Mike Tango returned yet?”

“He’s still busy at his business, Quebec Sierra.”

“When did he go up there, Bravo Charlie? Was his radio playing up or something?”

“Mike Tango has been gone for twenty, twenty-five minutes. Shall I send someone to hurry him along?”

“Go yourself, Bravo Charlie, go yourself. Keep in contact, will you?”

“Understood. I’ll go look now. He can’t still be on the toilet!”

“Hurry along, Bravo Charlie.”

“Will do, Quebec Sierra. I’ll have a look at his radio too.”


Banks knew that Quebec Sierra was the police sergeant. Bravo Charlie and Mike Tango would be two of his men. From what he could gather from the overheard conversation, the latter of those two police constables had gone to use the toilet at the motorway service station. They had gone there before and there’d been a bit of banter over the radio between them about how long it took to outside public toilets there and who else needed to go after the others said they were releasing gas.

The services were a small station on the southern side of the motorway that he had been told had only opened last year. They were closed since Transition to War had started and the motorway closed to civilian use with the shops boarded up and the petrol tanks drained. Looters had been there overnight and broken in before getting caught as they made too much noise. Thames Valley Police had sent up a van to take them away after they’d been arrested with Banks thinking that those looters had been lucky not to be shot. Others elsewhere had been and would continue to be, but that wasn’t happening here near Newbury.

His own orders in dealing with criminal behaviour was not to do so and that had come as a surprise to him. He hadn’t wanted to kill anyone and didn’t like the idea yet Banks had been prepared to see it done if ordered. Murderers, looters and arsonists were all expected to be shot for such crimes when the HSF had first been called out with Banks discussing that with others when they were mobilised. The government had decided that that wasn’t going to happen unless the incidents were ‘exceptional’ and nothing had yet changed. Therefore, no one had yet to lose their life in such a manner. He did expect that to change, it was just that he didn’t know when.

As to what he had just heard about the policeman going to use the toilet at the services and not being in contact on the radio since, Banks didn’t like the sound of that. Now another man going to have a look himself, going by himself. The public toilets weren’t that far away from where the policemen were set up, but far enough. Something about what he heard said to him that this all didn’t sound right. A man’s radio could be playing up and he could be taking longer than expected…

…but Banks had a bad feeling. He couldn’t shake it off and decided to do something.

“Chalky, Miller come with me.” He called out to two of the privates and then spoke to the section leader as well. “Corporal, where’s Turner?”

“What’s up?” Corporal MacGregor chose not to answer his question but instead question what Banks was doing. This was his rifle section but Banks was senior to him.

“I’m going down to the services to check on something: I’m not going alone.” Banks wasn’t one for films, but the wife had dragged him to the cinema before and he’d seen the slasher horror films. One man goes missing, another goes alone to check on him… you get the idea.

This wasn’t a Hollywood film yet what he had overheard had rubbed him the wrong way.

“It needs four of you?”

Still with the questions and no answers.

“Where’s Turner?”

“Here, Sergeant.” Lance Corporal Turner made an appearance; where he had been and what he had been doing didn’t matter now that he was present, nor did what MacGregor thought.

“Stay on the radio, Corporal.”


Banks led them down to where the services were. It was only a short walk. Turner was quick to have them spread out and not be bunched up. Banks gave an explanation of what was going on and his concern. None of those soldiers with him had anything to say and he watched them all check their weapons. Walking in the sunshine less than a quarter of a mile beside the road, Banks was struck by how strange this all was. He and his men were at home here in Britain walking with their rifles ready just in case they ran into the enemy. The war was in Germany, over on the Continent, yet it was here at home too.

Policemen and soldiers had lost their lives not being on their guard all over Britain during the past few days. He wasn’t going to see that happen here.

Birds were flying in the sky and higher up above Banks heard but couldn’t see an aircraft. It was a lovely evening in the middle of summer. He appreciated all that was around him yet reminded himself to pay attention. There could be someone waiting for him and the three other soldiers, waiting ready to kill them. He was ready for that, he told himself, and anyone who thought different would be in for a big surprise. He and his men were capable of engaging any opponent, yes, they were.

The deliberate remarks Banks made to himself were for reassurance. He was a bit nervous and thought that maybe there should have been more of them. Cartwright with his Bren Gun might have been someone who he should have ordered to take the short walk with them.

But, there was no turning back now. And, anyway, it was all going to be nothing. One policeman would be sitting on the toilet, maybe reading a book or something silly like that, with his radio volume turned down. The other copper would give him a surprise and they’d laugh when they saw the soldiers with Banks turn up.

He was overreacting, panicking at nothing.


The gunshot was unmistakable.

Banks heard it and knew what it was at once. Those with him did too. Turner was straight on the radio to MacGregor to alert him what was going on.

The soldiers stopped and dropped down upon Banks’ command. “Eyes open,” he told them, “and safeties off.” The command was unnecessary but Banks gave it regardless.

“That came from inside there, Sergeant. It echoed like it did.” Private Miller was rather matter of fact about it. He pointed his rifle barrel in the direction of the public toilets just ahead and behind the single line of trees.

“Let’s go find out then.” Banks had considered waiting here and seeing what was going on. He could bring down more men and surround the small structure before conducting a textbook military manoeuvre. That would take time though. He didn’t want to wait because he knew that those policemen were in there.

“Miller, with me. We’ll go to the front. Chalky, go left. Turner, cover us on the right. Let’s move.”

The four HSF soldiers scrambled towards the public toilets. A shout from inside, indistinguishable from out here, was heard and then a figure appeared coming out of the doorway.

That figure was a man in a camouflage uniform that Banks knew at once wasn’t a British uniform. He looked back inside as he came out and Banks saw a pistol in his hand.

A decision was made. Banks knew that he was doing the right thing. He remembered his training and made sure he stopped running and positioned himself properly when he fired his rifle. In one swift movement, which he would surprise himself by being able to pull off without falling over and embarrassing himself, he stopped, crouched and then aimed his SLR rifle.

He pulled the trigger and put a bullet in the man ahead.

The target fell after there was what looked like a puff of red smoke, though certainly wasn’t that. It was the head of his target violently ejecting a heck of a lot of blood.

Miller went past him and straight towards the fallen man. Banks couldn’t hear what he called out because his ears were ringing; he could only catch a glimmer in the sun of Miller’s bayonet as the firing of his rifle hadn’t effected his eyesight. Chalky was with him and he poked the end of his rifle into the open doorway. Turner came over and said something to him. Banks realised he should get up and take charge. He could go into shock after what he had done by staying still and doing nothing, which he didn’t want to do, so he had to fight that off.

Do something useful, he told himself.

“Sergeant, we’re going in.” Banks’ hearing returned enough to hear what Miller shouted.

Banks walked across to his men. They were following their training. Turner was saying something that again Banks couldn’t catch, though he understood what the lance corporal was motioning with his hands.

Spread out.

There could be others.

He told himself that he was an idiot yet followed the instructions. Turner had been through similar things in Northern Ireland while Banks hadn’t ever been in combat before; that was why he had brought the lance corporal along. There was no shame in listening to his subordinate who knew better.


When everything calmed down, and Banks recovered, the situation was better understood.

There had been no need for any more shots to be fired. No one else had needed to be engaged by him or his men. Chalky and Miller found the bodies of two policemen inside. One had had his throat cut, the other had been shot. The dead body outside was of someone unknown and he had with him the first policeman’s radio and the heavyweight pistols carried by both dead policemen as well as his own.

Who was he? What had he been doing here? Was he all alone like it appeared?

How did all of this happen?

Why had these people here died?

Banks was pondering these questions in his mind without any answers forthcoming when Turner put his hand on his sergeant’s shoulder and broke his revile: “Sergeant, you’ll be okay.”



Frightened

Civilians assigned to support the British Armed Forces under Transition to War were under military discipline. There was no saluting or wearing uniforms and they had only been semi-conscripted – the legality was fuzzy – but they were taking orders from military officers.

Polite orders though.

Eleanor Dickenson remained assisting the Royal Army Medical Services (RMAS). Casualties were now starting to arrive in large numbers back in Britain from aboard after air evacuation and giving them the urgent treatment that they needed was taxing upon medical supplies. NHS stocks were now being put to use and manufacturers were being worked with to provide more from their own stocks and also produce more. There was still work ongoing for her to do in making sure what was needed where and when it was would arrive for use. There were military personnel whose lives depended upon the work she was doing. She didn’t see any of them herself though. The administration job she was undertaking was all about paperwork, phone-calls and field work. Medicines were needed to be sent from here to there. Bandages had to be sent from one place to another. Stretchers had to be moved from this location to that site. When problems cropped up with transport or quality, Eleanor was on-hand to iron out the problem. There were other NHS staff such as her involved in this to provide the manpower that the RMAS was missing as hundreds upon hundreds of casualties had already returned to Britain and thousands more were soon to follow them.

Those in-charge at the military encampment at Ludgershall valued her work. She had been praised several times for all that she had done. Her willingness to travel across the south of England between varied locations – she’d covered quite a distance in the past few days; her car had permission to draw from petrol stocks – was noted and those in uniform turned to her first as problems cropped up.

What would they do without someone so dedicated to her work as Eleanor?


Eleanor drove her car out of the main gate and past the soldiers manning the inner defence of Corunna Barracks. She then went through the village of Ludgershall to the roadblock there and was let past after a check was run on her and her vehicle. There were teenage soldiers (too young to go to Germany) at the first checkpoint and policemen at the second. There was no delay more than what was expected. She was recognised yet still properly processed by them. Polite, friendly, helpful. That was what she was when dealing with all of this security present. It made things go smoothly and gave no concern about her to those who ran their security checks.

There was no desire for her to draw any more attention to herself than necessary.

Clear of the military presence and now on the road that headed towards her home, Eleanor became Ekaterina. She was no longer a British civilian assisting the military under TtW but instead an undercover GRU agent active here in this country as it was at war with her own. Her eyes paid attention to her car mirrors as she looked about for just who else was on the road. The radio-cassette player in her car had the station switched from a commercial channel – which had been broadcasting official news and ‘patriotic’ music since TtW had started – to that which allowed her to listen in on local police frequencies. Conversations at her new place of work where she had been open and trying to be a friend to all were now gone over in her mind as she recalled what the gossips had said and sorted through in her mind what she needed to remember and what she didn’t. She remembered to look for any danger signs left by Michael along the road but there were none of those visible but innocuous markings made by him or someone at his behest.

The journey home down in Hampshire from the edge of Wiltshire didn’t take her long. She went through a Hampshire Police roadblock when coming off the A342 road and those policemen there were less formal with her than those at Ludgershall. They knew of her husband and had also spoken to her beforehand where more than just formalities were observed. They still looked inside her car – she’d changed the radio station, of course – and while she allowed them to do that there were coaches that went past along the A342 and heading down towards Andover. They were heading south and in the direction of the coast. All three were travelling tight together with a TA Land Rover ahead and another behind: reservists on their way to a ship, she assumed. The policemen let her return to her car, wished her a good evening and one of them told her to say hello to her husband Inspector Dickenson for him.

Staying away from Andover and taking what was now her usual route away from home in the morning and back there in the evening, Eleanor took her car the roundabout route, the one taken the other morning when TtW went into effect. There had been a passing comment from one of the RMAS officers, a young female reservist, about how ‘lucky’ Eleanor was to go home to her husband every night with the war underway like it was. The new friend that Eleanor had made in that woman – a gossip and someone who was looking for someone to listen – had a husband of her own who was with the British Army of the Rhine.

Lucky wouldn’t be the term that Eleanor would use when it came to spending time with Michael.


There were no danger signs closer to the house. Eleanor still kept her eyes out for anything out of the ordinary regardless though saw nothing. Michael had said to her at with things going on like they were down in Andover there was also something more than British state security to look out for: criminals who were taking advantage of the war to steal, rape and murder. He was a policeman and his house was known as one where a policeman lived. There should be no issue. Yet… the violence unleashed had been far more than anyone could have imagined and he had told her to take no chances.

She saw nothing to worry about. His car was there and there was no sign of anyone else.

Going inside, she found a handwritten note on the pad he kept there atop a table in the hallway. Innocent, husband-to-wife notes were left there due to the hours that he kept though many written remarks were also simple coded terms. This one just told her to wake him no matter what time it was because he had to go back out again tonight for work.

It meant just what it said it did.

He was awoken by her entering the bedroom; Michael wasn’t one to ever drift off into a deep sleep like any normal person. “What time is it?”

“Just after Seven.” There was a clock there beside him.

“I have to be back by Ten.” He got up out of bed. “I didn’t get home until three this afternoon?”

“Why?”

They were both getting dressed now as they spoke. She got out of her work clothes into home clothes and he was putting his work clothes on even though, based on what he had said, he wouldn’t need to leave for a while.

“Problems.” He screwed up his face and walked towards the bathroom after motioning for Eleanor to follow. Both taps in the sink were turned on fully before he spoke to her.

“Some of our people were shot by civilians, five of the Special Purpose men were killed. Thankfully, they all died before they could talk. A pair of British Chekists then turned up and were far too interested in me for my liking.”

He whispered to her and Eleanor noticed the taps running with all of the noise that that made. She realised that he was concerned about there being someone listening. Someone listening to them in their own house! Michael splashed his face with water and looked at his reflection in the mirror. She was behind him and saw something in his face that she had never seen before.

Michael was frightened.

She’d seen him concerned, angry, impatient: never frightened.

“There’s something more too.” He turned the taps off and flushed the toilet; more noise was being made. “I can’t contact Vincent. I tried broadcasting twice today but there was no response.”

Vincent was their handler, a senior GRU man here in Britain living as a civilian like them. He was here to assist them both with so much. They relied upon him to operate as they did here in this unfriendly country and also receive orders for them from home.

Michael had worse news: “The Special Purpose team over in Wiltshire, out in the open there, can’t find what they are looking for.” Again, he flushed the toilet with all the noise that it made following. “They worry that the American missiles might not be there after all!”

Eleanor had said nothing to all of these revelations from her husband and fellow intelligence officer. He returned to the mirror and she continued to look at his reflection.

The fear was still written all across it.

Inner pleasure came to her seeing him in such a state yet that was only momentarily. If he was in danger, she was in danger too.


Michael hadn’t been what Eleanor had been expecting when the GRU had sent her to Britain. She had been told that she was being assigned to a man as his wife for reasons of maintaining appearances for him – there was no bigamy involved for Ekaterina as she didn’t actually marry Michael – yet her task was to do more than that. He would need a second person to work with in undertaking his intelligence-gathering activities within Britain and also helping to store, maintain and update the weapons stocks held there in case they were on day needed by Special Purpose Forces (the Spetsnaz commandos).

His sexual assault had been the first unpleasant surprise though there had been more awaiting her. Michael had told her that all of her tradecraft, what she had learnt in training back in the Motherland and when she had gone to English-speaking countries, meant little to him. He had no respect for her and taught her the way he wanted to teach her anew. Mistakes that she had made in learning how to meet with the few agents he had working for him – British traitors, just not as many as she thought there would be – to pass messages and exchange information. When it came to how to dress, how to talk to people, how to think… he retrained her.

He didn’t do it in a nice manner and errors were paid for with pain inflicted.

His cover was that of a policeman born in Britain and raised abroad from childhood in what was then Rhodesia and now Zimbabwe in southern Africa. Like hers, this was that of someone who was dead and the identity assumed. Michael had been a policeman there in the country that was once part of the British Empire and then declared independence before a political change had occurred eight years ago. Others like him from Rhodesia/Zimbabwe had left the country afterwards and Michael had ‘come home’ to Britain. The way she understood it, sympathetic elements of the security services in Zimbabwe had helped with establishing his credentials though there had been GRU work done here before he had arrived. Michael was seen as a valuable addition to Hampshire Police when he had joined them after doing the same job there in that distant country. There had been a little handiwork done to smooth the process along too: nothing was that easy.

There was little actual spying that either Michael nor Eleanor did. There were secrets that they did find out though and those were to do with actions that would happen should Britain ever go to war and as part of the jobs that they would do as part of that; others did that for them. They made preparations for the possible arrival – it was always possible, never thought to be probable – of the Spetsnaz one day as their main task in Britain. What traitors that Michael made use of, recruited by him and others to be shared, were those who worked in military, intelligence and policing roles. There were KGB people in Britain who undertook political roles and stole the big secrets; the two of them were more-focused on GRU tasks. The spies themselves were those who did what they did for monetary gain or for misguided conscience reasons. There were no communists or others who betrayed their nation for ideological reasons that they worked with. Michael had said that he preferred it that was the same as it was with those who could be forced to commit treason because they were being blackmailed: such people were ultimately dangerous. He had her recruit only two people officially – supervising every step – for their joint purposes and was always in control of that.

When there had come the increase in international tensions, followed by the warning from Vincent that war was coming and so too would be the guests that they had prepared for the arrival of, so much of what was usual for Eleanor had changed. Michael had been forced to give her more freedom. His agents needed to be serviced by her as he was so busy. She hadn’t failed him though there had been some errors made… and a beating too.

That had come yesterday because of one of his agents named Richard Young and his girlfriend whose name Eleanor didn’t know and hadn’t met. The two of them, one a traitor for money and the second a West German girl who Eleanor didn’t know much about, had caused a lot of trouble when they were meant to be of help to GRU aims.


“I bet you’d like a bath after a long day?” Michael no longer whispered. The bath taps went on. Eleanor could only think that he was certain someone had been in their house (he left indicators to be disturbed which would show him someone’s presence) planting electronic devices; she would help him search for them.

“What do we do?” She kept her voice low under the sound of the running water.

“We carry on. We still have our mission. There are messages to be passed on to the men to the west looking for the missiles from what little I have heard. The missiles are meant to be there; the men must find them. Here in Hampshire, the distraction efforts must go on. I must keep them informed of security activity.”

“There are so many soldiers here and not in Germany.” Eleanor had been of the understanding that Britain would send almost all of their military forces to Western Europe with only a skeleton force left at home. She had seen and heard of many going as they were supposed to, like those men in the coaches she had witnessed on the way home, yet many more showed no sign of leaving Britain.

“Nothing can be done about that.” He snapped at her. “We carry on. When I go to work, I will visit the site next to the old garage,” there were several transmission sites that they used for short-range, burst transmissions, “and try Vincent again.”

“What do we do without Vincent?”

“Let me worry about that, will you?” He grabbed her wrist hard and squeezed it. He never would usually hurt her there, somewhere that someone might see. “Remember your training and your oath to the Rodina.”

“Yes.” She consented to his wishes; he let go of her.

“I have to take care of this problem with Richard Young. You will help me with that.”

“I will do as you say.”

Eleanor had no choice. She had given her oath to the Motherland to serve its interests and obey orders… plus her real husband and daughter remained back in the Soviet Union.

“And we’ll have to do something about the pair of Chekists who thought they were so clever today. They spoke to me and they have been asking questions about me too.

I’ll put a stop to that.”

Michael left the bathroom after such a remark that’s meaning Eleanor understood.

She sat on the edge of the bath with it running behind her. Her wrist was bright red, she saw, and would probably bruise. Tomorrow, she’d have to wear something long-sleeved despite the expected continuing hot weather. There was no excuse for what Michael had done; Eleanor never made excuses for what he did to her either emotionally or physically.

Yet… she knew that he was frightened though and that was why this evening he had hurt her in this manner. Again, that was no excuse. But it was why he had done it.

With him scared like he was of being caught, then being shot as she knew they would be – the British would be as unforgiving of them as the Motherland would be of Britons doing what they were –, she was just as scared and frightened too. However, she wouldn’t give in. She’d fight to the end in every and any way possible to avoid being caught. She had to. She wanted to go home to her family at the end of all of this.



Cooperation

43rd Brigade’s operations officer was a former Para by the name of Lieutenant-Colonel Martin Green. He had been with the regulars before he’d transferred to the TA and taken a senior position within the overall command responsible for the home defence of the South & Southwest. It had been anticipated among other officers in leadership positions on the brigade staff and its component elements that Green would be sent with TA Paras that were off to Germany (maybe Scandinavia) to fight there. He did leave the brigade staff, yet didn’t go as far away as the Continent. Instead he came to Brock Barracks in Reading.

Upon the arrival of his fellow officer, Lt.-Colonel Pearson went and met the helicopter that had brought Green up from Exeter. There had been a short message informing him that the brigade operations officer was on his way though no explanation given. Pearson had got the feeling that maybe he was about to be relieved of his duties commanding 2 WESSEX and Green was arriving to take over. Once that idea entered his mind, he couldn’t shake it. Pearson had been already thinking that he had failed in his duties to protect the mobilisation effort and military installations against attack alongside the fiasco which was to hunt down the Spetsnaz active trying to locate the hidden Cruise detachments that the Americans had.

However, he was mistaken. He wasn’t to be relieved of his battalion command. Something else was afoot with Green’s arrival tonight.


“You’ve done the best with what you had to hand, Colin.” The two of them were looking at the map of the 2 WESSEX’s operational area and the series of pins attached denoting enemy activity. “The area is too large and your battalion is too small. Your mission orders are not ones I would have wanted to try to achieve.”

“It hasn’t been easy. I’ve made a bit of a mess of it.”

Other battalion staff officers had backed away from the two of them and Pearson felt free to say what he felt without worrying over the morale of others.

“Nonsense.” Green shook his head.

“Martin, that’s kind of you to say but…”

“Let’s go to your office.” Green cut him off. “Things are going to change and I need to go through that with you.”

“This way.”

The commander’s office was located near to the map in the operations room. The short walk there felt to Pearson like he was taking the last walk of a condemned man. He shut the door once the two of them were inside and then went over to his desk. He was ready for the words to come, just more than a little surprised that they would come from his replacement not his superior. Pearson could only imagine the disgrace he would face for the failure which had taken place while he was in command.

“You’re not being relieved, Colin: you have that look like you expect to be.”

“I thought… well… I expected it.”

“No, that’s not it at all. As I said out there, you’ve done the best with what you had. The mission assignment was too much. The numbers of, but more so the spread, of your opponents wasn’t foreseen.

So, things are going to change. Let me explain.”

Green asked if Pearson had something to wet his whistle with, just a tipple of something strong, and when they both had a drink, he explained why he was here.


Pearson wasn’t to be relieved of his command though he was to see part of the duties assigned to him removed. Green stressed several times that this was no refection upon him, just the realities on the ground.

2 WESSEX, under Pearson’s continued command, was to remain fulfilling the duties that it had across Berkshire and Hampshire as well as the north of Wiltshire. The M3, M4 and M27 motorway routes were to remain kept open as they needed to be guarded by an active rather than static defence. Convoys of military forces and supplies needed to be freely able to use those routes without losses being incurred. The three rifle companies (A Company from Portsmouth, C Company from Maidenhead and D Company from Swindon) that Pearson had working to do that, alongside the other elements that provided a less mobile force, were to be joined by B Company (home-based in Winchester) that had been active to the west of the others. No longer were those 2 WESSEX men to be out across the North Wessex Downs and Salisbury Plain trying to locate those Spetsnaz out there in what had become a futile search. They were to come back east and help the rest of Pearson’s men in dealing with the Spetsnaz threat to the motorways and the military facilities near to them.

Others, under Green’s command, were going to be active looking for those Soviet commandos.

There was to be no official battalion command for the mixed force that Green was to lead. It would be referred to as ‘3 WESSEX’ when needed, but there was no need for the traditional battalion elements that would be found elsewhere. It was a wartime establishment with one mission and the ad hoc force would split up after that was complete. With the 2nd Brigade operating across Kent, Surrey and Sussex, they had an 8 QUEENS operational (alongside the peacetime standing 6/7 QUEENS) and Green said that he believed there were others elsewhere across the country as the Home Defence role was proving difficult in places with peacetime plans having to be modified due to wartime realities.

Strangely enough, the enemy didn’t want to cooperate with plans to combat them.

3 WESSEX was to be active through the Wiltshire countryside. Green was to have his men hunt down the Spetsnaz that were there. While that enemy had yet to locate and attack any of the American missile convoys, they had unleashed a wave of death and destruction there as they failed to find their Cruise targets. That was to be stopped. Bullets from British soldiers would stop that. Green was to have under his command mixed elements gathering together now and ready to be active by the morning. Soviet commandos would be put into the ground, he explained, and he didn’t intend to stop until the last one was caught and killed.


“They gave me some Gurkhas first.” Green started to list who he had to operate under his command. “I wanted some Paras, but, as you know, Colin, they all went off to the Continent. The training company from Sandhurst is with Eight Queen’s down on the Kent coast somewhere so instead I have the ones from Brecon.”

Pearson knew who Green meant: the Gurkha Demonstration Company’s from the training establishments in Surrey and South Wales. “I thought they would have gone to Germany? Surely there’s a division awaiting them?”

“So did I, but they stayed at home instead: someone wanted them for Home Defence. The Brecon Company was at the Corsham site but now they are with me.

I also have the general reserve companies that stood-up at Tidworth and Warminster. Individual Reservists from there were being given urgent refresher training ready to fight in the security role behind the frontlines across West Germany. Instead, they will do the same here. There’s a T.A company from the Black Country, a Mercian Volunteers unit, being sent down to me as well.”

“Anyone else?”

“The S.A.S have that detachment at Bath, the counter-revolutionary warfare unit. They will be assigned the moment that I have a firm fix on the enemy and will swoop in to take all the glory. I’m short on everything else, naturally. I mean supply, transport, medical and admin. elements because this has all been put together too fast.

But with what I have, the mission is doable.”

Pearson saw in his fellow officer’s face the determination to get the job done. He knew that Green would rely upon him to keep what opposition there was to the north and east of him in a fight even if that was left unsaid between the two of them. That was okay with him though. Of course, it would be difficult and costly, yet the need that Green had explained to eliminate Soviet commandos unleashing what they were out there in Wiltshire was more important.

It occurred to Pearson that he could redeem his earlier failures – no matter how much gloss Green had put on them – by making sure that the Spetsnaz where 2 WESSEX were operating weren’t able to assist those about to be hunted down and exterminated by the new 3 WESSEX.

Something else did occur to him though: the issue with where those Cruise convoys could be found and the cooperation with that.


“What’s the situation with the Americans?” Pearson asked. “Will you be working with them?”

“That situation,” Green gave a rueful shake of his head, “remains as it was when this all begun. I’ll get just as much cooperation as you did… which means, f-all cooperation, Colin.”

“Surely, they understand?”

“That they don’t see it the way we do.”

“That’s just…”

“…idiotic.” Green finished Pearson’s remark for him.

They were speaking of the secrecy that surrounded the Gryphon deployments. Once the missile convoys had left RAF Greenham Common – which was their garrison, not their operation base – they had disappeared into the English countryside. Six self-sustaining convoys (each with sixteen GLCM missiles per Flight) were in operation with support from mobile elements of the RAF Regiment. They were hidden at undisclosed locations with a readiness to launch their nuclear-tipped missiles at a moment’s notice. Pearson, Green nor anyone else with the 43rd Brigade had been told where they were. The command staff of the headquarters of the UK Field Army (the higher command for national Home Defence) had that information yet it wasn’t being shared further down, certainly not to the battalion commander’s in the field leading troops near to wherever those missiles where. Elements of the RAF Regiment knew, but not the British Army.

This was done for security reasons. Both men here at Brock Barracks understood the need for that secrecy yet they believed it to be overdone. The Soviet Spetsnaz appeared to have a better understanding of where the Americans were hiding when it should have been them and the British Armed Forces who did. Again and again, the message from above had been and remained that the Cruise convoys would be hidden and any military activity near them would attract attention. If where exactly they were wasn’t known, then they couldn’t be located by those aiming to destroy them.

That was all well and good. It did make sense… until Pearson first and now Green were told to send troops into the general area where the Americans were to flush out Spetsnaz. The risk of overlap, of friendly fire was immense. Yet, the knowledge on location wasn’t being shared and the orders stood to hunt down enemy commandos regardless of what made sense and what didn’t. The caveats of the missile deployments to Britain by the Americans specified utmost secrecy. Those high up in the British Armed Force command chain wanted the Soviet murderers of civilians across Wiltshire killed. That was the way it was: there was to be no direct cooperation between the two though.

“What will you do if your men accidently come across the Americans?”

“Did you consider that too?”

“Yes, Martin, I did.” Pearson had.

“My orders are to back away.” Green gave a wide grin. “Won’t want to let them know we are trying to keep them safe, would we?”

“No indeed.” The situation was so outrageous that, despite how deadly it was, it could only be funny.

“There’s something else too, Colin.”

“Yes?”

“I had a thought on the way here.” Green paused for a second. “Well, in fact, I first thought of it back at Exeter but the idea formed on the way here.

Anyway, the Soviets clearly have been told to search through Wiltshire for the Gryphons. We have been told to use our soldiers there to locate Spetsnaz hunting the missiles. It’s a bit convenient, isn’t it?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Who says that the missiles have to be in Wiltshire? That’s not very far from their operating base. If it was up to me, if I was in-charge of where those missiles were going, I’d send them elsewhere, especially if I knew that there was an active and large enemy threat. Wouldn’t you?”

“Oh.” That hadn’t occurred to Pearson before. It was so obvious though.

“Somerset, Devon, Gloucestershire or Oxfordshire; anywhere but Berkshire or Wiltshire would be best if they don’t want to stray too far and limit their operational range. That is what I would do. Then, I would make sure that there were British soldiers running around the countryside where the Spetsnaz would be to keep them there and thinking that the missiles are there too.”

It made sense. Pearson could see it like Green did.

“Martin, that would be… just… I don’t know.”

“Exactly.”

Neither could think of anything else to say on that matter. It didn’t matter whether Green’s suspicions were correct or not though about where the Americans and their missiles might be. His men were to follow Pearson’s and try to track down the Soviets out there in the open expanse of Wiltshire. People were going to die, joining those – mostly innocents – who already had. All for ninety-six missiles with thermonuclear warheads pointed at the Soviet Union and ready to start the process of ending civilisation.

What a happy thought indeed!

[James G]

The Fourth Day


Won’t get caught

Michael had told Eleanor that he couldn’t deal with the problem at hand, the threat to the two of them and so she had to do address the danger rather than wait for him. Remember your training, he had said, and consider the unpleasant experience of torture & imprisonment by the British security services. She had what he had said in her mind when she arrived at the house in Winterbourne Monkton and knocked on the front door. A voice called out from inside asking who was it and what did they want; Eleanor gave the coded response. When the door opened, she stepped back, knelt down and shot the man who was running deeper into the house in panicked alarm twice in the back.

Richard Young fell forward. His arms went out and he crashed into a small table on the way down. The telephone hit the floor, so did an empty vase. Blood seeped out of him at once and spilt all over the carpet. Michael had loaded the pistol with explosive-tipped bullets and had said that they would make a mess. He hadn’t lied.

Eleanor stood back up and put the pistol back into her handbag. She would get rid of it soon, just not here. Michael had been correct in saying that she couldn’t get a gun through the security checkpoints at Ludgershall – both in and out of there this morning – so she hadn’t taken it with her, just picked it up on the way. She also wouldn’t manage to sneak it into any other military base where she hadn’t regularly been going: if it couldn’t be done into Corunna Barracks, then there was no chance elsewhere that she was a stranger. There would be no risks taken. The weapon would be discarded soon and she knew exactly where to do that.

The front door was closed – she slipped on the plastic gloves to do that then took them off again – and Eleanor went back to her car. The pistol had a silencer and the house was at the end of a lane on the edge of the village (just why it had been chosen as a place to hide Richard), but she didn’t want to hang around. She had to be somewhere. The gun would be thrown into the river and then she had that appointment she had made at the military hospital.

Eleanor drove off. The task was done. She hadn’t messed up. Richard wasn’t going to talk about what he knew. She and Michael were safe from exposure from him; Michael was working on closing down other threats. If he had been able to kill Richard, he would have. He couldn’t though and so had sent her.

She wasn’t going to get caught.


Michael had given her the order last night. It was impossible for him to get across out there into the village in the Wiltshire countryside where Richard had been sent after dropping off the last of the Spetsnaz right before the war had begun. There were too many checkpoints for him to pass through and he was certain that the British Chekists – their MI-5 spies – were already onto him. They would be closing in upon Richard too after the death of his girlfriend Hanna. Like Hanna had to die, Richard had to as well.

Eleanor had come up with the method to do it herself.

Michael had been pondering over ideas for her to get to where Richard was but she had seen how it could be done. She had said that she would go to Ludgershall early this morning and be creative in finding a problem that required her to go to RAF Princess Alexandra Hospital that lay next to Wroughton airfield. She had shown Michael on the road map the route that she could drive to get to that military site to address whatever problem she would hastily find with medical supplies needing her attention. Driving to such places on legitimate reasons had what she had already been doing and no one would check up on her. If they did, they’d find nothing to be suspicious about.

Everything had gone smoothly. She’d gone to the RMAS office and found the issue needed to go to Wroughton. Casualties were arriving there by air and being moved across to the military hospital. There were British service personnel who were being transferred onwards after being processed for what injuries they had to other sites. There was already a shortage of pain relief medicines but, as she’d done before, Eleanor could go there and check through what the hospital staff had decided as being out-of-date to make sure that it all was. No lies would have to be told, she just had to make it urgent for her to travel there.

That had worked. They relied upon her to do this. She was helping to save lives and had volunteered to address that issue. No one in-charge at Ludgershall had any objection: they were in fact keen for her to get moving. Roadblocks had been gone through, her identification & car checked and questions asked as to where she was going. The road she took was a bit of a roundabout route though not unnecessary. There’d been a stop on the way to retrieve a hidden weapon – Michael had left them all over the place; Eleanor had worried about a child finding one of them – and then the drive up to where Richard had been stashed out of the way.

Success had come.


Eleanor stopped the car again within the next ten minutes. There was a spot beside the River Kennet – it was no more than a stream in this part of the countryside – and she threw the gun into there. The gloves went into the water as well. Eleanor was back in the car soon enough. She started it though looked around before she drove off.

The North Wessex Downs were all around her. This was where the Spetsnaz soldiers hunting the American missiles were. They were out here in two groups while there were another two across in Hampshire. There had been so many of them that the GRU had sent before the war started, far more than she had ever expected to arrive here to fight inside Britain. They were out there now and looking for those missiles pointed at the Rodina and ready to be fired. Michael had said that none had yet to be found.

Why?

The two of them had been here and elsewhere watching the Americans exercise in peacetime. They had seen the work of anti-nuclear campaigners – rather deluded people, in her considered opinion – who had followed the Americans and then shared that with those they thought too were interested in a nuclear-free world. This is where those missiles would be. The Spetsnaz that had come here had trained to hunt for such targets. They should have been able to locate them from how the Americans had acted during training and now the messages containing intelligence information that Eleanor had passed on through radio messages. Michael had someone inside, a British traitor, and she had transmitted the coded messages.

So why couldn’t the men out here find those missiles?

Eleanor drove away. She followed the road up to the airfield. There was an outer checkpoint nearby that she went through with no problems encountered. At the second one, closer to Wroughton, a female military officer with the Women’s Royal Air Force asked to look inside her handbag and also check her person before she could pass. Naturally, Eleanor agreed. If the pistol used to kill Richard had been with her, it would have been found.

An aircraft went low overhead during this. Eleanor looked upwards like everyone else. It was a transport aircraft, a C-130 Hercules: either British or American. RAF Lyneham lay just to the west but this one was on its way into Wroughton. It dropped down out of sight and everyone’s attention returned to the vehicle search. Eleanor imagined that those with her beside the road outside of the airfield were all thinking that there were casualties aboard. She was here to help with treating them yet they were still deadly serious with her. The search had been thorough, the checks made on her identity & purpose for the visit proper and there had been weapons ready to used against her should the need arise.

But, as everywhere else, they let her through. They didn’t know who she really was and what she was all about. Yet, that was only the case because everything she did was planned out and with cover built in. There was nothing about her activities on the way here this morning that she could imagine would allow anyone to have any idea that she was involved.



Questions

After the shooting last night, Sergeant Banks called his wife. This wasn’t an easy thing to do because under Transition to War there were restrictions on the use of the national telephone system yet was able to make the call. As it was only outgoing calls, not incoming ones, that were unable to made unless the call came from a number that was on an approved list – the Government Telephone Preference Service worked in such a manner – Banks was able to get through to her after gaining the necessary permission. He was driven up to a public house inside the village of Chieveley by Thames Valley Police to a phone on that list and made the call from there.

His wife was surprised to hear for him but glad too. She asked what was wrong. She told Banks that she knew something must be wrong if he was calling. He had been unable to tell her. He had wanted to say that he had just shot and killed a man after being unable to save the lives of two policemen, yet the words hadn’t come out. He couldn’t open up like that.

There had been some silence and they had told each other that they loved one another. She had some news for him: Steven Jr. had been in touch too. Their son hadn’t said where he was, just that he hadn’t gone abroad off to Germany. No other under-eighteens had done so either, Banks’ wife told him, and so their boy wasn’t going off to fight. Whatever he was doing while in uniform, it wasn’t taking part in the war on the Continent. Banks’ wife had added that he was safe because he wasn’t abroad, the war was over there and remaining in Britain meant being safe.

He hadn’t corrected her. It wasn’t safe here too. Safer, but not safe.


Banks had returned to the motorway junction with the police officer that had taken him on the short journey there and back and thanked him. He thanked the police sergeant too, as well as apologising for failing to stop what had happened where two officers from Thames Valley Police had been killed before Banks could stop that from happening. He was told that it wasn’t his fault, that the Home Service Force soldiers had done their best: their best, as far as Banks was concerned, would have been to have stopped those murders from happening.

Following the shooting, the motorway services had been a scene of intense activity. There had been the arrival of more policemen and an ambulance too. TA soldiers had arrived in their Land Rovers with the Wessex Regiment men spreading out over the area and looking for further armed men. The one who had been killed wouldn’t be alone, Banks had been told, and there was an eagerness to find who had been with him. Banks had spoken with their officer and then one of his own from the HSF where questions were asked about what exactly had occurred. He had questions of his own yet no one had been able to answer them: who was the killer of those two policemen he had been trying to protect and why had all of this happened?

There was the later arrival of civilian spooks and uniformed Army Intelligence Corps personnel. The body of the man Banks had killed was taken away. He was asked questions and so too were his men and some of the policemen as well. Questions and questions and questions… It had gone on and on and on. Where were the answers though? They didn’t tell him anything. He got a pat on the back, told he had served his country well and then informed that the events here were being treaty as a matter of national security. For now, he and the rifle section were to stay and the platoon of the TA would be nearby as well. The policemen were being replaced by more of their colleagues though.

There were different policemen here at the roadblock and checkpoint for access on and off the M4 motorway that he now had to worry about being killed while he was here meant to be protecting them.


Things were far calmer this morning. The overnight activity had ceased. It was a bright day and going to be hot again. Banks busied himself with the men under him and made sure that they were given shade from the sun and had water with them. He told them all not to wander off alone. That was unnecessary and they hadn’t done that before – the policemen had paid for that error fatally – but he reminded them of the need to keep their eyes open nonetheless.

Corporal MacGregor, whose rifle section this actually was, acted differently around him now. There was none of that sceptical questioning that there was before with every order given. He was still a tosser, always would be, but a tosser without a differing opinion on everything today.

With the other men, from Lance Corporal Turner down to the privates here, weren’t the same with him either. They listened to everything he said and did it in an instant. They had some questions that they respectfully asked too: he told them that as far as he understood it, it hadn’t been Speckles (Private Rogers’ name for the Spetsnaz was starting to stick) who had struck here but someone else. Was it, Private Miller had asked, the KGB? From Private White, there had come the question as to whether a British-born traitor had been responsible?

Banks had told them that he hadn’t been told and so couldn’t give them any information. They all went about their duties afterwards. They wanted to know but were satisfied that their sergeant had been honest with them.

It was because he had shot and killed someone. Banks knew that some of the men, MacGregor especially, had doubted him when he had joined them. He was an outsider. Their platoon sergeant was back in Reading and Banks had turned up to take charge. He wasn’t thought of as a proper soldier. Then he had proved that he was… well, in their eyes anyway. Banks had a different opinion yet read the mood of the men and kept such thoughts to himself. It would keep them all alive having so much faith in their sergeant and that would surely stop other lives being lost here too.


Privates Miller, White and also Daniels were with Banks as he was now up on the grass embankment watching over the motorway itself but also getting a view of the surrounding area from on-high. Daniels had excellent eyesight and Banks had given him his binoculars to scan the wider area. Look for movement, Banks had told him. Miller had started to make a comment about looking for sunbathing women with what was certain to be a witty remark to follow yet had ceased that midway through when he had looked at his sergeant. Instead, he had returned to watching the motorway and the traffic that was on it.

“Sergeant, another convoy coming from Welford.”

Banks had seen it before Miller did. His mind had been thinking on recent events yet his eyes worked just fine.

“Where do you think they are going?”

The trucks and lorries were heading eastwards and weren’t coming off the motorway to go back west (the lack of easy access made a turnaround at this junction necessary) to RAF Fairford where the B-52s would be.

“East Anglia, I’d think.”

“Bombs for delivery to the Russians from above.” White – Chalky to his mates – had his take on that.

“The more the merrier.”

“Lads,” Banks had something to remind them of as the lead security vehicles approached, “they know we are here and who we are but let’s not do anything silly, shall we?

Keep your rifle barrels down as they go past.”

It might have sounded silly to say this but it was necessary. Those in the convoy which came from the munitions depot at RAF Welford – surely empty by now? – would be on edge. They would be looking for an excuse to open fire against a threat to what they carried. Casually swinging a rifle barrel in their direction, without thinking, wasn’t the best of ideas at a time like this.

“Yes, Sergeant.” Almost in unison, all three of them, even Daniels who was facing south, gave the same response. No rifles were pointed towards the Americans as their vehicles rolled onwards heading down the motorway and, as Banks presumed, towards those airbases spread across East Anglia. Bombs, rockets, missiles, bullets, fuel tanks and everything else that aircraft on combat missions would need were being sent to them.

He hoped that the F-15s, F-16s and F-111s would put them to good use.



Running

Sergeant Zobnin had no choice but to run for his life.

Gunfire was coming from the left, more accurate rifle fire was coming from the right. There were British troops shooting from behind as well. Up ahead, there was a gap. He saw it and knew that others saw it too, including the British soldiers who were certain to try to close that gap. When they did, Zobnin would join the dead and dying who were his comrades all around him.

He would have to run.

It would make him a coward. Running was for cowards who abandoned their comrades. No order had come for the fatal position to be given up and anyone who could to make a break for it.

Captain Panchenko couldn’t give that order though. He was one of the dead. Zobnin had watched him fall and seen the mess that was his head afterwards. Lieutenant Nartov had died yesterday. The two other sergeants were dead and mortally wounded respectfully. Zobnin and his comrades had been caught by an enemy force far larger in number than them and nearly surrounded. They were taking fire and seemingly not hitting anything in return. There was nothing else to be done but try to escape.

Zobnin watched another man make a run for it before he could.

He did the same. He hadn’t been the first and hoped that he wouldn’t be the last.

Away from the clearing in the woods, Zobnin sprinted away with bullets chasing after him. He left so many of his fellow Spetsnaz behind.


The civilians in their vehicles along the roads were dead ahead. Zobnin ran right towards them. He saw how far Ivan Mikhailovich was ahead and also took note of Viktor Bogdanovich as well almost beside of him. There was no one else running away like they were so there would only be three of them, yet he was glad that he wasn’t alone. Now, the only opposition to their escape were these civilians that had caused all of this.

The vehicles weren’t moving and were lined up along a country road. Refugees, Panchenko had said the last time the two of them had spoken, who had fled from the cities and into the countryside where they looked upon the authorities to help them. Their presence hadn’t been foreseen until they were stumbled upon and a diversion had been taken to go around them. During that, the Spetsnaz had been spotted and taken fire. They had fought back and tried to drag what was believed to be only a small British force inward towards the trees where they could be cut down in terrain favoured by Zobnin and his comrades. However, the British had bene larger in number than thought. They hadn’t fallen for the trap of the false withdrawal and spread themselves out well. The Spetsnaz had been taken apart when misunderstanding and wholly underestimating their opponents.

All because of these damn civilians.

The gunfire from the woods and the shouts of men in battle would have been heard by those here along the road. Zobnin had been certain that they would all scatter and hide when that was all heard and then soldiers such as him came running away from that firefight. Many did, but others stayed firm. There were people all around the stopped cars and inside of them who didn’t go anywhere as he and the others reached them. Maybe some were frozen in panic yet he wasn’t so sure about that.

Why weren’t they scared?

Did they have guns like those vigilantes yesterday?

Zobnin had his own rifle strapped to his back and he had a pistol in his hand which he had taken off a policeman he had shot the other day. He would stop anyone, anyone at all, who would get in his way or try to kill him without hesitation yet had no wish to kill anyone for no need at all. Other comrades of his, those who had just left behind, had no such qualms. That was them though, those who were now dead or dying – maybe even ending up in British custody – and not him.

Time was running out; he was getting closer.

Ahead of him, Ivan Mikhailovich took the initiative. Without stopping running, the private fired his weapon into the air. He had his carbine rifle in his arms and shot off a flurry of bullets skywards. Zobnin was struck at once by the sight of the civilians who were right in the way running every way they could apart from towards him with others diving to the ground or behind cars. Yet, the realisation came to him too that those shots would be heard by those which the three soldiers were running away from.

What else could be done though?

There was a white car and a green car. The first was a small vehicle and the second a larger one. There was someone inside the green car – a woman maybe – but no one inside the white one. Ivan Mikhailovich had gone between the two of them and Zobnin chose to follow. Viktor Bogdanovich went further down the line of vehicles towards another gap.

Something was thrown at Ivan Mikhailovich. Zobnin didn’t know what it was. It missed his comrade and was then followed by something else… which looked like a container of liquid which spilt everywhere behind the other Spetsnaz soldier who was in the field. He saw who it was who must have thrown either the first or probably the second item. It was a middle-aged man wearing glasses and a soft hat. That civilian shouted something towards Zobnin as he reached the gap between the cars. Zobnin’s English was good, he had been told, especially at reading the language, but whatever this man shouted at him, he didn’t understand. It wasn’t a term he had come across before.

“Wanker!” The man screamed it again and then dropped down. It didn’t sound like a compliment at all.

Zobnin told himself not to care. He was past the cars and leaving the road about to disappear into that other field. Ivan Mikhailovich was getting too far ahead. Viktor Bogdanovich was too far to the right. The three of them any stood a chance of surviving all of this, which would only be a small chance indeed, if they stuck together. He was about to call out to his comrade ahead when he caught the movement out of the corner of his eye. Something else had been thrown in his direction. Outrage came over him and he was about to stop.

Before then though, there was the splash of liquid on the back of his head, atop his left arm and down his back. It certainly wasn’t rain.

Now he did stop.

It was urine that had hit him.

There were gunshots far back from where he had come and the British soldiers were there. Closer to him was a man who had called out what had to be an insult to him and then thrown urine at him.

Zobnin fired a shot from the pistol back towards the vehicles. Just the one, he had no more time to go after his assailant properly.

“Mudak!”

He started running again, going after his comrade out ahead.

Zobnin was getting away from not just the enemy soldiers who had killed his comrades but also the civilians who had caused all of this. If he stayed nearby and found that man, to put a bullet into him, he would end up dead too. He had to get out of here. He also had to link-up with his comrades so they could stick together.

He would take charge and decide what to do… and clean off the human waste thrown at him.



Monsters

Lieutenant-Colonel Pearson didn’t want to remain tied to his command post at Brock Barracks and so had found the excuse necessary to get away for the day and visit his subordinates in the field. 2 WESSEX was still spread far and wide with the battalion over a large area of three English counties. The return of one of the companies back from its failed searching mission to the west tightened-up the operation area some yet Pearson’s men still had that geographic spread across the countryside.

He knew that he would be away from Reading for most of the day travelling.

A small convoy of three vehicles had brought Pearson down and several of his staffers, plus security troops, to near the South Coast. A Company was active in the part of Hampshire south of Winchester as they guarded the motorway corridors (the southern part of the M3 and the whole stretch of the M27) by patrolling the areas around these major routes. The commander of the company of TA soldiers who had been undertaking constant patrols for the past several days without a break met with Pearson near Eastleigh. Pearson found that major tired himself yet only concerned about his men. The volunteer soldiers were doing their best though there was concern for them. Their homes were in places such as Eastleigh but also the bigger Portsmouth and Southampton. Only the Royal Navy town that was Portsmouth had escaped recent waves of criminality, arson and general chaos whereas the other two, in addition to smaller localities, had suffered. The police were busy and opportunists had taken advantage. The men had heard what was happening and feared for their families. They were busy themselves as they protected military convoys on the motorways that were heading towards the ports; there had been incidents where they had engaged in small-scale firefights with those who took shots at the trucks on the roads, tried to plant roadside bombs and otherwise stop the logistical effort to get what was now equipment and supplies sent off to the Continent after fighting men had already gone.

Pearson could do little for his subordinate nor his men. He understood the situation that A Company was in with where the men would have their minds distracted as they thought of troubles at home yet urged the major to remind the men that the wildest rumours that they might have heard weren’t true. There had been trouble in the towns, but they were still standing and the lives that had been lost had been fewer than first feared. Fire was the problem in them, not outright anarchy and open murders taking place. As to who they had been fighting, A Company had yet to meet with any Soviet Spetsnaz. It had been lone KGB operatives and traitors to Britain acting on their own who had been fought: A Company’ soldiers had done well and he wanted to see the good work continue. It was important what they were doing down on the South Coast, Pearson’s message had been pre-departure, and he was pleased with them.

B Company was whom Pearson had intended to visit next as they returned from the western parts of Wiltshire into the eastern region of that county where there had been Spetsnaz activity away from the motorways against military bases located there. Small strikes where armed raids had taken place and the countryside seemed alive with reports of armed men (some of that, naturally, panic rather than fact) and Pearson was bringing them into combat that. However, before he reached their commanding major who was at the airfield at Boscombe Down, C Company sent an urgent report of their own contact with the enemy. They had taken part in a major engagement and were reporting destroying a large group of Spetsnaz.

Pearson had diverted his route up to Whitchurch in Hampshire.


Captain Schofield met with Pearson when he arrived. “James, where is Major Adams?”

“He’s supervising the prisoners, Sir.” Schofield was at the company command post… a fancy name for a Land Rover with its rear opened up and radios pulled forward from inside with several officers standing around and busy at work.

“You have prisoners!” Pearson hadn’t been told that; that was brilliant news indeed. “How many? What shape are they in?”

“They’re a bit beat up. We took six alive, Sir, but lost two to their wounds not long afterwards. Another one might not make it, or so the medics tell me.”

“How many of your own, James?” Prisoners were excellent but at what cost?

“Excuse me, Sir?”

“How many wounded and dead on our side?”

“Sorry, Sir: it’s been a long day already.” He wiped his forehead of sweat (he was out in the afternoon sun) for a moment then reported the numbers. “Seven men are dead, Sir, good men all of them. Another sixteen are hurt, more than half rather badly. Number Five Platoon is hurting. Both Lef-tenant Denning and Sergeant Hall are among those killed.”

The cost of the victory was high. Far too high.

“Enemy dead?”

“We have eleven bodies not counting those we took prisoner. We think that some of them were shot by their own side when injured rather than be left to be captured. One of the prisoners was nabbed trying to get away from his own side – maybe a sergeant there – trying to kill him when our guys had already shot him.”

“Did any more of them, James, get away?”

Schofield screwed up his face. Pearson knew him well enough that he did this before delivering bad news.

“Unfortunately, it appears so, Sir. It was a short engagement and it started in a hurry. In the wave of bullets, some Spetsnaz seem to have made a run for it. We have civilian reports – that don’t seem to be overblown – of two, maybe three, even four men running and getting away.”

“Battalion H.Q. is making sure you get more medical help, James. I’ll check on that myself.” The injured men, those with C Company and also that of the enemy, would be treated as best as possible. Bullet wounds and other combat trauma would tax what little resources were on-hand with the company; external help was needed.

“Where can I find, Terrance?”

“Major Adams is over there, Sir: he’s by the church graveyard.”

Pearson followed the direction which Schofield pointed. He informed his battalion aide to keep his pistol in his hands. That might seem dramatic to others and he was sure that the Spetsnaz were thoroughly disarmed and well under guard, but he knew full well that with commandos such as these, taking chances was what had already got so many killed.


When speaking with the company commander, Pearson’s eyes were on the bound prisoners. He was shown the men that Adams paraded around like trophies. Adams was Adams and that was expected from him – something to deal with another time – but he was still pleased another with the capture of such men to worry about the eccentric behaviour of his subordinate later.

One of the prisoners was being given medical attention (two TA soldiers were standing nearby) by medics who knew that he was their enemy and would kill them if he had the chance yet they were trying to save his life regardless. The other three were also being held under guard with soldiers around them who were there to make sure that they didn’t escape yet also that no one would try to kill them either. Adams explained to Pearson that he was concerned that some of his men might forget their discipline and take revenge upon them. He didn’t want that to happen and Pearson explained that he didn’t either. Officers from the Intelligence Corps were on their way to take these men away and Pearson agreed with his subordinate that it would be best to hand over live men for intelligence purposes rather than corpses.

The prisoners were hardly likely to enjoy their time in custody anyway. Others would get the revenge that the men here would like to see in time. Pearson didn’t know how the war would turn out – nor much apart from how it was going to be honest – but he didn’t expect that these men would ever see Mother Russia again. Generals, no, politicians, would make that decision… yet he did expect that they would end up shot for war crimes.

What other fate was there for such people?

The particulars of the security around the prisoners were of interest to Pearson but so too were the men themselves. He looked into the faces of the men and expected to see monsters.

They weren’t monsters.

The trio were just men. They were human beings. They had mothers and fathers and families. They were loved by someone somewhere.

But they had come here, invading his country, and killed so many people when doing what they had been. That would seal their fate in the end.


Pearson took Adams aside for a moment, out of earshot from everyone else.

“Terrance, a moment.”

“Sir?”

“These men stay alive while you have them. I doubt that the boys and girls from Maresfield will be long,” the Intelligence Corps had a high proportion of female officers and was home-based at Maresfield in Sussex, “and I want to hand over these men to be questioned.”

“Understood, Sir.” Adams gave a firm nod that gave no sign of him doing anything else.

“Something else too…”

“Yes…”

“No policeman comes anywhere near these men. Whatever the excuse, whatever the urgency: it doesn’t matter, they stay away.”

“Sir, there is no situation I can see where a policeman would be anywhere near them.” Adams was rather taken aback at the idea of policemen being near his prisoners. “What is going on?”

“That’s a Box Five Hundred issue.” Pearson wanted to explain but he had his own orders: what he had been told by MI-5 was to be closely-held. “Just keep any policemen back. Are there any in the village?”

Adams looked over his shoulder into Whitchurch. “Yes, some. They are helping out with civilians. I’ll keep them away.”

“I know it’s difficult, Terrance, just necessary.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good.” Pearson was certain that his orders were going to be obeyed because they had been so clearly made. “Now, I forgot to say, didn’t I?

Well done to you and your men. C Company has done the regiment proud.”



Prisoners

Guards Major Tarasov had had enough. He called out to the missileman who was tracking the helicopter. “Sergeant, shoot it down.”

“You want me to shoot it down, Major?”

Tarasov’s orders weren’t those which were usually questioned. His men always obeyed him without comment. He didn’t snap back at the sergeant though because he instantly understood why there came a request for clarification. He had repeatedly told his men not to fire upon this helicopter nor others that had come near to them in the past few days. He had been explicit in that. Now, he was changing his standing orders.

“Shoot it down. Put a missile into it, Sergeant Petrovsky, and right now.”

“Yes, Sir!” Eagerness came to the missileman. He knelt down, raised the launcher over his shoulder and aimed his weapon. Tarasov watched him like everyone else did, all waiting impatiently as well as wishing him luck.

Moments later, a surface-to-air missile shot skywards.

Tarasov swung his gaze upwards and searched the bright sky for the helicopter. He’d lost sight of it this evening: he just hoped that the missileman hadn’t! If the helicopter was missed and managed to get a warning off, as well as a location fix, then there was trouble to come. He’d considered that, even the crew managing to send a message after being hit, but judged the risk as being worth it.

They couldn’t move with this helicopter present. It was an unarmed aircraft that hovered low to the ground and moved slowly. There would be scouts aboard with binoculars and so the Spetsnaz team that Tarasov led which was meant to be hunting for the Gryphon missiles couldn’t undertake that task. His own scouts had told him that there were no other opposing forces nearby. Tarasov had had them check that again and again as he had suspected a trap, but there was no sign of anyone else apart from this helicopter. Its crew had been brave but foolish. They might had thought they were invulnerable above.

That would have been a mistake on their part.

“We got it.” There was a call of celebration from another man with Tarasov’s command party. “It’s hit and coming down.”

Tarasov saw a puff of smoke but no helicopter.

“Go, go!” He was struck with an idea. His frustration which caused him to have the enemy engaged turned to seeing an opportunity. “Get to the wreckage when it comes down.

Get me some prisoners!”


What followed next was a well-rehearsed manoeuvre which had been perfected now after previous ambushes. Those had taken place against vehicles, instead of a helicopter, but overall it was the same.

Tarasov had a group of his men go to the crash site and grab what could be taken from the helicopter: men, weapons and any intelligence material. They would be on a time limit and focused upon doing what they were there to do while watching out for someone to try to interfere. Another group would provide distant over-watch of that and the general area while remaining where they had been beforehand with long-range weapons and their radios. Everyone else, him included, would move to a new location away from where they had been before when the prisoners and anything taken from the wreckage was brought to. The standing orders in doing this would be followed with everyone meant to know their task and do it.

Just as the orders were to not open fire against a target without explicit permission, everyone with his detachment was aware that they were in hostile territory with a far numerous foe all around them. The only way to survive, he had drummed into his direct subordinates to drum into theirs, was to move fast and efficiently. When they struck out, they had to do so with the full knowledge that any mistake or delay could easily bring death to them all.

As his men went to work, Tarasov observed it all. No problems arose. There was no immediate response elsewhere from anyone previously unobserved. His men reached the helicopter wreckage. He moved with the main force to a new location. He was pleased…

…yet he would have been more pleased if it had been one of those American missile convoys that had just been hit rather than a lone helicopter.


The GRU agents in Britain as well as their filthy lackeys – Tarasov had no time for traitors, no matter who they were and what country they served – had supplied his detachment with a fleet of five vehicles at the beginning of their operation. There were a pair of motorcycles fitted-out for cross-country use which Tarasov had his scouts use and three wheeled vehicles also capable of travelling over the countryside. These were Range Rovers in civilian hands, he had been told, though he had taken some time to get over the shock that such vehicles weren’t all in military use due to their durability and reliability. Two of the all-wheel-drive, jeep-type vehicles had been pre-painted in the colours of the local police force (complete with blue flashing lights and also sirens which Tarasov had made sure were silenced) with the third being given the finish of a military-issue vehicle. That latter green-&-brown vehicle had been lost in an accident and was irrecoverable but the two other Range Rovers were still in use.

Most of the time, those vehicles helped with the movement of equipment and supplies rather than men. Tarasov himself refused to ride in one of them as he saw it as a first target in an enemy ambush despite his deputy stating that the British would be hesitant to fire upon a vehicle seemingly of their civilian police without being absolutely sure first. Tarasov had his feet which he used to walk, run and also pedal the bicycle that he had as well. He valued the bicycle – a new BMX – and had a wish to take it home with him afterwards, once this was all over.

Alas, that was then, not now.

He rode over to the new hiding spot, in another patch of woodland and his men came with him. They travelled as fast as possible and there were a couple of accidents on the way for them. Not Tarasov though: he told himself that he was getting rather good at this. With a smile on his face, he met up with the men who had taken one of the vehicles to the crash site.

They had returned with two prisoners.


Yesterday, with the American who had lied to them, lessons had been learnt. Tarasov had admonished himself, then his men, for being too eager to believe what was said to them. They had harmed their prisoner then too much in getting him to talk and reveal supposed secrets. When those were discovered to be false, the captured man had been too badly hurt to give them much more afterwards and his body had given out on him. That wasn’t going to happen today.

Both prisoners were hurt. They had survived a helicopter crash when others with them had been killed and then dragged away from the wreckage by uncaring foreign soldiers who cared nothing for their pain. What improvised medical attention had been given had been no more than to stop the bleeding and keep them alive long enough to talk. There was no pain relief and certainly no comfort.

“What do we have? Who are they?”

They were all within a patch of woodland with coverage above and all around. Men were posted on watch close and at distance. The gaps between where the missile had been fired from to take down the helicopter, where it had crashed and here were not that significant but far enough. No one was going to come and interfere for some time and – hopefully – they would be spotted long before they tried.

“Co-pilot and a spotter. Both are from the British Army. The co-pilot is an enlisted man, a senior sergeant, and the spotter is a junior lieutenant. They are hurt and may not live with these wounds, especially the officer. They gave us little fight and have been searched.”

Senior Lieutenant Fesenko was to handle the interrogation. It had been his responsibility yesterday and Tarasov had told him that any more mistakes like that wouldn’t be tolerated… Fesenko had understood completely what that meant. He had these two men and he was to get accurate information from them, not disinformation.

Otherwise, he faced the possibly of a field court-martial: that being a bullet in the back of the head and a shallow, unmarked grave.

“Do what you must, Pavel Andreyevich.” Tarasov’s previous smile had disappeared. He wanted results now and was determined to get them.

The interrogation began. The prisoners were given the opportunity to talk freely and tell the truth. If they chose not to do either, they were informed that they would suffer horribly. What wasn’t said, was that neither was leaving the company of Tarasov’s men alive.


When it was over, Tarasov could only be disappointed.

The men had talked and what they had said gave no indication of being false. It wasn’t helpful in finding his targets though. The helicopter had been shot down for nothing. The attention that was going to come this way afterwards wasn’t worth what little information the prisoners had given them. They stated that no message had been broadcast from the helicopter before or after the impact of Sergeant Petrovsky’s missile but Tarasov still knew that the British would come looking eventually. The men who had gone to the crash site had tried to drag some branches over the wreckage, those with many leaves attached, but it wouldn’t hide the wreckage that had come down in the middle of a field from those looking down from above for any longer than the briefest of moments.

The prisoners could tell Fesenko nothing of the Gryphons. Where were those missiles aimed at the Motherland? The men didn’t know. If they had known, even had the faintest clue, they would have talked. But they didn’t know where the Gryphons were.

What they had told Fesenko was that they were looking for a radio broadcast location. A mast was being set up for a company of troops being sent to this area: Gurkhas apparently, whatever they were. Tarasov expected the arrival of more British soldiers – he had been sent information to that affect – though not men in a helicopter looking for a site from above. He had to ask himself if they were they afraid to use the roads and were the other men coming by helicopters too?

Those concerns aside, what the prisoners told him was of no use. The GRU agent who was sending him on useless searches for the Americans based on either faulty, or worse, false intelligence had already told him what they had only confirmed.

It was all for nothing.

There was one final thing to do. “Lieutenant,” he called Fesenko over, “put them out of their suffering before we move on.” Neither prisoner had been tortured but they were so badly hurt that Tarasov considered he was doing them a service. They had no value and would only slow his men down if dragged around before their demise. He told himself that he was doing the right thing… for once at least.

Two faint thuds from silenced rifles were heard a few moments later as yet another wasted day for the Spetsnaz came to an end.



Revelations

Working directly with Jack, with help from others as well, Lucy Hunt was confident that there was enough that MI-5 had to have Inspector Michael Dickenson from Hampshire Police arrested and detained. There was sufficient evidence to highly-suspect he was a foreign agent engaged in hostile activities in wartime Britain; if he wasn’t a Soviet national posing as a Briton born in southern Africa, then he was a traitor regardless. The country was at war and such people were being detained already under legislation passed by Parliament. Jack had said that it would be best to get Avon & Somerset Police to arrest him – the Security Service didn’t have the power of arrest – as he might have friendly contacts within neighbouring police forces such as from Wiltshire or the Thames Valley. There might even be the need for soldiers to be involved, though Lucy had agreed that that would probably be unnecessary if done correctly.

Such an investigation of the man as they had so recently started would usually take a long time yet with Britain at war and the crimes he was suspected of, what had been done had been short and efficient. There was no need to worry about the politics of the matter with his employers complaining about one of their senior policemen being detained with little actual evidence, physical proof rather than a lot of suspicions and conclusions drawn from those, during times such as these. The usually long surveillance and detailed investigations into everything about his life were all too time-consuming and in wartime, there was the need for those resources to be spent elsewhere. Dickenson was their man and Lucy shared Jack’s opinion that the time to act against him was now. He could be taken into custody tonight, maybe even if his wife too as an initial look at her (most attention had been on him) had run up several warning flags too.

Aaron Castle, Lucy and Jack’s boss who was running MI-5 operations through the South & Southwest of England as the dispersion from London had brought them all to Bath, had been informed of everything they had been doing. They had briefed him on everything they had and also pointed out what the Security Service had in their files about the man from beforehand. There was a note in his file from when he had applied for a transfer within Hampshire Police from Public Order to Special Branch dated only last month concerning worries over his background being from Rhodesia before it became Zimbabwe. Wasn’t Zimbabwe currently at war with what were unofficially being called the Allies? That was surely enough for a reason to detain him – despite the Commonwealth status of the country – if there was an issue over what they had dug up on his wartime activities and brought to light the recent suspicions about who he might be?

Aaron had nodded in agreement but told them to wait an hour or so before things got started: he had his own bosses to brief and get clearance from. This was going to be politically sensitive either way in his opinion and he was also concerned about the danger that came from Dickenson if he was an undercover GRU agent. Wait, he had said, and so Lucy was waiting.


The MOD offices at Foxhill were rather spartan. When MI-5 had arrived here where the defence procurement site was, they found the location in a sorry state. Extra phonelines had been brought in and security set up here in this anonymous location for them to freely operate from but not much had changed internally. Lucy found the canteen to be rather depressing, especially at this time of night when it was almost empty with hardly anyone else about to hide its decrepit appearance. She saw a friendly face though.

“Elizabeth!”

“Come sit here.”

Elizabeth was older than Lucy and had put in her time with MI-5 through years of dedicated service. She was pushing retirement age and was sometimes a mentor to newer, younger female officers who joined the Security Service. She’d seen it all, she’d done it all. What was to many viewed as a Boy’s Club was far from it with those such as Elizabeth present. The two of them knew each other well and trusted one another completely.

“I didn’t know you were here; I thought you’d gone with those who went up to Corby.” Like those who had come to Bath, there were others who were at the Northamptonshire town and further locations nationwide. Even if the London headquarters of MI-5 wasn’t blasted to nothingness in atomic fire, it was too centralised and otherwise vulnerable to enemy activity.

Elizabeth shook her head. “Shrewsbury was where they planned to send me, then that changed and I ended up based here. Though, I haven’t been here much: I’ve been down in Devon and Cornwall on fieldwork.”

“Care to elaborate.” There were others around yet no one close enough to listen. Moreover, Lucy didn’t intend to spill any secrets that she wasn’t supposed to; she assumed Elizabeth was thinking just the same.

“There was an East German team active, until we rolled them up, down there in the Southwest. The H.V.A,” Lucy knew who Elizabeth was referring too; the East German Stasi had their HVA foreign intelligence arm known to be operating in Britain, “had some people that were caught once Transition to War went into effect. I got dragged in afterwards to assist in talking with some of their helpers, measly little traitors, as there were more than first thought.

It was a big network. They had all sorts of people involved in a lot of things… well, planning to do a lot anyway. We took down the key people at the top first and that left most of those below without coordination.”

“What were they involved in?”

“Their plans were to plant bombs and shoot people. The communications interception site at Morwenstow, several airfields, the R.A.F. commander of the Nimrod force out of St. Mawgan, etcetera. You get the idea. There was also a plot underway to attack one of the holding centres for those people that the government locked up. Do you know the type of people that have been detained?”

“Yes.” Lucy thought that she did. “The usual suspects are surely all being held, yes, Elizabeth? Communists, Marxists, Anarchists and a smattering of others.”

“More than a ‘smattering’ when it comes to the others. The new government wanted a widening of the scope. We took into custody all sorts of people from…”

“Hang on.” Lucy interrupted her friend. Something that Elizabeth had said was unexpected. “What new government?”

Elizabeth gave her an incredulous look.

Lucy hoped that she returned that with how she stared back at her.

“You know. Everyone knows. Where’s the joke? They’ve told everyone. Lucy, stop playing games.”

“I’m not.”

“You mean you don’t know how all of this started?”

“No.” Lucy chose the simple, one-word answer to give her. Elizabeth was playing games with her, not the other way around. She had no idea what was going on.

Genuine surprise came. “Oh. Damn. Well, I’m sure they just missed you out if you have been in the field. So, you want to know?”

“Please,” this was getting silly, “c’mon, tell me what’s going on.”


Elizabeth covered it in the next few minutes. How this all started and the new government – her terms – were explained to Lucy in some surprising revelations.

The tension over events in Germany that had been the lead-up to the war were what had created the situation where war become inevitable. There had been some dithering in London from politicians initially but then there had been a final decision, prompted by the lead set by the Americans and the French, to mobilise nationwide and start TtW. Intelligence that MI-5 had gained and had been urging action on when it came to foreign agents on British soil along with the arrival of Spetsnaz forces hadn’t forced the hand of a hesitant London: the United States and France acting like they did had been the cause. Elizabeth was disgusted at such a thing and had let that be shown. For Britain to follow the lead of others like that rubbed her the wrong way.

A group of those politicians had then been killed straight afterwards. It was the KGB, rather than Spetsnaz commandos, which had managed to murder senior ministers at a meeting right in the middle of Whitehall not very long after the decision had been made and before dispersion efforts had been started. The Prime Minister was dead. The Foreign and Defence Secretaries had been slain alongside her along with others including the Chancellor and further secretaries of state. The bomb used – set off in Downing Street or the Cabinet Office; Elizabeth wasn’t sure – had killed leading members of the Opposition as well who were present for last-minute talks on setting up a wartime national government. The KGB had done their homework and struck at the right time and the right place; a massive intelligence failure had occurred to allow for that to happen.

The former Home Secretary was now the Prime Minister and his government was using emergency powers to govern the country. He hadn’t been present when the bomb had gone off though someone had tried to kill him at the same time with a sniper rifle only failing by what seemed to be pure chance. The massacre in Whitehall had come alongside a similar attack made in Bonn (which failed to get the West German government) and a shooting incident with the French President wherever he had dispersed to away from Paris. No information had come from elsewhere but Elizabeth said that if a serious attempt had been made on the American President or others at the top in the United States, the news might not have reached Britain unless their president was dead: she would have expected the missiles to have started flying by now if their president had been assassinated.

There were Soviet tanks stacked up behind the Iron Curtain ready to roll and NATO governments were being targeted for brutal murders to decapitate leadership. A couple of hours ahead of the main Soviet strike, what had to be their invasion of West Germany, NATO had struck first. Air and naval actions had commenced against Soviet forces ready to invade. Elizabeth knew nothing of how the war was going there on the Continent and elsewhere since apart from it hadn’t gone nuclear… yet.


“Holy Fucking Shit!”

Wow, just wow. What Elizabeth had told her was more than a little surprising. Lucy sat back in her chair and looked ahead at her friend. What more was there to come?

“They’ll get around to telling you eventually, I guess. It seems it’s all being kept more secret than I thought. They told us the next day.”

“Yeah…”

Lucy was hearing Elizabeth and understanding what she was saying, yet her mind was still on the shocking revelations made. To lose what would have been the War Cabinet like that in Whitehall was going to be one of the biggest intelligence failures that the Security Service would ever be held responsible for. Then, following that, for Britain and NATO to attack the Soviets first… the propaganda value of that for them would be immense.

“It’s crazy out there. I know you know about the mass of civilians leaving London and the other cities. Who’s going to look after all them is a question I hope the new bunch in-charge have an idea on. I’m trying to stay positive on other things such as how you fight a war when the whole country seems to have ground to a halt like it has.”

“You said too about who was locked up, Elizabeth? Not the usual suspects?”

“They grabbed anyone. I wasn’t involved but I know some of the names of people arrested. Academics, former politicians and well-known campaigners. I’m talking of the harmless. Some of them have causes that are opposed to the Soviets… well… actually, many have too. Why did they grab all of those anti-Apartheid people for instance?”

“I don’t know.”

“Neither do I. The country’s gone mad. When this is all over, someone will have to put it all back together. Going back to normal after this will be hard.”

“You don’t say!”


Lucy spoke with Jack before they went into see Aaron. He hadn’t heard what Lucy had and expressed some surprise yet he didn’t appear to be that taken aback by it all. He said that ‘this is war’ in response.

The Prime Minister assassinated and NATO attacking the Warsaw Pact in a pre-emptive attack: just a case of this is war.

She was still reeling from that when Aaron told them that they were not to move to arrest and detain Dickenson tonight. He wasn’t to be nabbed by policemen or soldiers supporting Lucy and Jack in getting their hands on him so that he could be interrogated for all that he knew. Aaron told them that getting anything out of him would take too long and might not even work anyway; short of pulling his fingernails out, the usual psychological manners would need a lot of time and that time wasn’t available. If the two of them were right about Dickenson, then he was in contact with Spetsnaz commandos active in Britain. The armed forces were having difficulty tracking them down through physical searches and also electronic means at getting at their communications. With a close watch on Dickenson with him being left active, that was how those foreign soldiers hiding in the British countryside would be caught. The military need to locate them was preeminent at the moment, above that of the Security Service to squeeze him dry for everything he might or might not tell.

“We could lose him. He could go to ground himself. He’s been acting like he might have an idea we are on to him.”

Jack’s less-than-expected vocalised opposition to the idea he was so gun-ho for surprised Lucy. She could only assume that he was trying to talk Aaron around by being reasonable. Yet, she had understood the point Aaron had made about military necessity in stopping those Spetsnaz. That was their initial assignment after all.

“What about his wife?” Aaron hadn’t mentioned her and Lucy thought she was important. “She is more active, movements-wise, than him. We are to be all over her too?”

“Yes.” Aaron rubbed his hands together with glee. “She’s probably more of the key than him. She has to be passing messages and making broadcasts at hidden radio locations then, in addition, reporting back to him on what she has done. She is also spending time around others she hasn’t seen and met before whereas he isn’t doing so and will be on-guard more. That will give us more access to her.”

Lucy had been ready to do as she and Jack had wanted in nabbing Dickenson straight away but what Aaron said had merit. Jack’s concern was valid too though: they couldn’t let him get lose either. It would be a balancing act.

“So, we’re all over her, then?”

“Yes, Jack. Follow her and track her movements. We’ll start listening-in as well. I want to see if she is another chameleon and in fact Russian like you think her husband is.

Now, the Army is bringing in hunters to track down the Spetsnaz and our own S.A.S rambos are still sitting on their behinds. We will give them all something to do. I’ve been in contact with Corby and they are sending down an electronic warfare team to help: the Royal Air Force technical chaps have had some success going after Soviets in East Anglia.”

“Okay.” Jack gave his consent to his new orders.

“Lucy?”

“I agree.” This was what Aaron wanted and she did agree, even if she hadn’t been expecting all of this. It had been a night of that though: being surprised by unexpected revelations.

“We’ll find out where she had gone,” Jack said, “and hopefully find some of their contacts working backwards as well. We’ve had no lead on this Richard Young character and maybe that might be a way of finding him.”

“Do that too. Look forwards and backwards with them both and their activities.”

“We will.”

Lucy intended to start doing that tomorrow morning first thing. Maybe they might be able to find the boyfriend of the dead Hanna that way, the poor girl whose murder had started this all off with Dickenson acting so rashly there and drawing their attention.

[James G]

The Fifth Day

Impotent

Overnight, a message had come over the radio link which gave a new location where apparently an American missile convoy could be found the coming night. There would be Gryphons hidden in a certain location – with the missiles pointed at the Rodina – through the hours of darkness at the selected spot. Only the information of location and a short time-span was within the message that came; no intelligence upon where that convoy had been before, anything to do with extra defensive & camouflage measures they were taking or a direct order to attack was contained.

Guards Major Tarasov wasn’t being directly told to strike against that missile convoy.

He had only received the information of where the Americans could be found… if that intelligence was accurate where everything previously had not been. His mission though was to do just that. He and those whom he led had been sent here to Britain, so far behind any conceivable frontlines that it would have been laughable if it hadn’t been such a death sentence, were told to locate and attack the missiles. The orders he had received before he had arrived on such distant shores stated that he could use his own judgment when it came to operations procedures due to no direct high command also within Britain yet he was still supposed to go after the Gryphons.

Tarasov couldn’t ignore what had been sent to him. If he could reach the location given, then he was supposed to take his men there and eliminate all that he found. If he didn’t, he would be shirking his duties would be punished eventually. Where the location was, he had seen on his map that he could get his men there. It was possible to do so even with the restrictions on transport. Therefore, he had started to try to get to where the Americans would be. Through the early hours, his men had been moving there. All through the morning and into the early afternoon, Tarasov intended to spend travelling before a rest period came for some of his men while others prepared the way ahead to strike.

It was doable when he started.

It had been doable until dawn broke.


Scouts reported that there were troops everywhere. Through physical observations and intercepts of radio transmissions (heard and positioned; not decoded), Tarasov’s men radioed back that they were seeing signs of the enemy moving all over the place. Their own messages were short and encoded with radio discipline followed but he knew full well that if his men were hearing the opposition on the radio, they were hearing messages themselves. There was an aircraft flying low in the sky that Tarasov was told was a British Army Islander: a small, slow aircraft making lazy circles in the sky. Bait for another missile attack to give away his position it might have been, but more likely carrying electronic interception and triangulation equipment.

Using his own map, Tarasov looked at where the British were. He had one of his junior officers, one of his best men, assist him in marking where the British had been spotted. In addition, it was speculated upon where they were moving to as well based on those scouting reports and logically operating procedures. Tarasov’s assistant said that he was basing the latter on what they as Spetsnaz would do if they were hunting enemy special forces teams yet it was only reasonable to assume that the British would be doing the same. He agreed with such thinking yet, even if he didn’t, it really didn’t matter.

The British had cut off their movements.

Ahead, behind and to the flanks the British were. There was no physical line of troops who had a presence over every square meter of ground, but the deployments they were making meant that they might as well have. They were establishing over-watch positions. It was almost as if they knew his men were here…

The halt order Tarasov had given immediately following the arrival of the British force into this region of the countryside sent his men to ground. They were quick to disappear into whatever cover could be found. He had his command group do the same and then enforced complete radio silence across the Spetsnaz detachment. Until he gave the direct order, no one was to move nor use the radio unless absolutely necessary.


Tarasov was within the undergrowth under some trees. He was thankful that it was summer and that there was plenty of natural cover from the foliage to allow for the ability to hide rather than to have to dig into the mud should it have been the winter. It was a warm day yet not too hot either. He knew that he and his men could hide like this all day – silent and still – for as long as they needed to be. His men would all have their eyes and ears open and despite the improvised positions, they would all be aware of their surroundings enough not to be sneaked-up upon by the British. Training and real combat operations first in Afghanistan and now in Britain had taught them how to do this.

What now?

Unless the opposition brought in men to physically search everywhere here, with those others providing over-watch, the Spetsnaz detachment wouldn’t be found. He didn’t expect them to blast the area with shells, rockets and gas… this wasn’t Afghanistan where the Soviet Army would do such a thing but the English countryside and the British Army wasn’t that type of opponent. They wouldn’t find the Spetsnaz if Tarasov’s men stayed still and silent.

Yet doing so meant that he couldn’t go to where he was heading.

Tarasov was in a real bind. He continued looking at his map and measured the distances involved in his mind. The routes he planned to take – not keeping everyone together – were already long-winded. It would have been a close-run thing to get to where he intended to stage his strike force from and operate the scouts from as well. The plan had meant avoiding places he would expect to find enemy observation or being seen by civilians who could contact the British military. Time had been short; that was now ticking away. Moreover, he considered too what he would be losing more than just reaching that reported location of where Gryphons could be found. If they were there, he would know that the intelligence he received on this and in future was accurate. If they hadn’t been present where they were meant to be, while denied an opportunity to eliminate them, he would also have known that the information was inaccurate.

Staying hidden and not moving forward meant knowing nothing!

There was a temptation to send one or two of his scouts forward. There was no cordon that the British had set up as far as he was able to tell. Maybe his experienced men could get to the reported American position first? But the risks… They might be spotted and left alone by the British. They might be spotted and attacked. In either scenario, the British would know for sure that his men were in this area and certainly bring in more men; with the latter, he would lose his professionals.

Nothing could be done.

Everyone had to stay where they were. When darkness came tonight, whether the British had moved on or not – even if they ‘had’ they might not have; the might deceive him –, he needed to get his men out of here. They were going nowhere today through the long hours of daylight. It was too risky. The British weren’t here by accident and he didn’t see how they could be overcome in such numbers and spread out into the good positions that they were.

There would be no targeting of that missile convoy. Tarasov and his men were left impotent when it came to their stated mission. He had to assume that his opponents wanted it that way too.

He could only swear under his breath and sulk at his situation. Furthermore, he had to wonder to what had brought this all about. Had they been betrayed?



Dark times, testing times

The policemen had heard that there was to be a statement on the radio by the prime minister at ten o’clock this morning. As he had done with those Thames Valley Police who had been replaced by the current group, Sergeant Banks had made sure he had a good relationship with those he was here to protect. The guilt he still felt over the murder of two policemen the other day was still with him – he couldn’t shake it – and he didn’t want it to happen again. They accepted his friendship and let him know about this when they heard the news long before Banks and his Home Service Force soldiers did. The policemen were several hours ahead of him and were told what he was more than two hours beforehand.

Banks wondered why that was the case. Was it just because they were civilians – even when in uniform – and what was going to be said on the radio (and the television too, but they only had their radios) would affect them more? He hadn’t been sure. He’d asked his platoon commander but the lieutenant didn’t know why that was the case nor what was to be said by the prime minister; he didn’t think it was important either way and was off the channel soon enough as he contacted other spread detachments of his men.

It bugged Banks. It was only a little thing, but he didn’t like being the last to hear of something. At the same time, another part of his mind was telling him that there was more wrong than just that: the strain of all of this, this war, was wearing on him. The little things were bugging him now.


The expectation of what was coming on the radio was a bit overdone. Once Banks’ soldiers heard about it, they couldn’t stop talking about it and speculating on what was going to be said. Banks didn’t know these men well and had only been with them since the first day of full mobilisation, but he had expected that they would be a bit different. None of them were young men with all having plenty of service behind them wearing uniform. They knew about rumour spreading and how dangerous that was. Yet, he did have to concede that he was interested in their speculation too. He kept his mouth shut but his ears open. He couldn’t help it.

No one had heard anything since the war started about what was going on.

Those with him around the roadblock established at the motorway junction wondered what the prime minister was going to say. Some said she might give a Churchillian speech; other believed she’d rant and rave. A few talked of possible news that might come where details would be given; more said that no information would be given. They argued with each other about what would be spoken about. There was talk to if they were all going to hear from the Queen too; perhaps that was happening later. It got a bit silly and their debates were a tad vocal. Banks didn’t cut in even when one of them threatened to whack another – an idle threat – and let Corporal MacGregor deal with Private’s Dawson and Miller there.

The rifle section leader was delegated the task by Banks of deciding who wasn’t going to be able to listen to the radio at ten o’clock either. They couldn’t all gather around the radio for however long it would take. They were on duty and there was a watch to be maintained. Policemen manned the roadblocks yet the HSF soldiers were here to support them. Everything might have been quiet and there was no sign of the enemy… but that had been the case the other day when the murders had taken place of those policemen under Banks’ care. It wouldn’t happen again. Banks refused to allow it to reoccur. Therefore, MacGregor had to choose those men who would stay on watch for the period of time that the prime minister was on the radio and who wouldn’t.

Naturally, that didn’t include making a decision upon what Banks would do.

Lance Corporal Turner as well as Dawson and Miller (on punishment duty) as well as Private Cartwright with the Bren Gun missed out of the radio broadcast.


At first, overhearing the radio while standing back with his eyes open and looking outwards not at the radio like the others did, Banks was a little confused.

That wasn’t the prime minister. There were comments made to that effect from some men while others shut them up. Banks missed the opening remarks made by the man on the radio. He caught the name and recalled that he was – no, had been – the home secretary before the war; now this man whose voice he heard was the new prime minister. He spoke of a terrorist attack in London and the war starting after that. A defensive strike had been made, the prime minster said, as Britain fought a pre-emptive war alongside its NATO partners and others who were the ‘Allies’ against the Soviet Union, the Warsaw Pact and others with them.

Again, some men here had comments cut off by others telling them to shut it as they all wanted to listen. Private White asked if he’d heard it right and the former prime minister was killed in that attack; MacGregor said yes, that had happened… and shut up!

The war was global and was being fought across the continents and oceans. Britain was playing an important role in that yet it was only one of many nations fighting. These were dark times, the prime minster told those listening here and elsewhere, and testing times too. Victories had been won but defeats met as well. The country would fight on though as the war was being raged for the values of freedom, democracy and doing what was right.

What victories? What defeats? Tell us, the men with him shouted at the radio.

People in Britain and listening abroad were to remember what they were fighting for. They were to obey lawful orders from the authorities and the armed forces. Panic and rumours were not to lead them astray. The whole country needed to pull together at times such as these.

Ending the broadcast, the prime minister stated that the Queen would be speaking to the nation that evening and the BBC would carry her message to those listening as well.


Churchillian it wasn’t!

Underwhelmed, Banks turned away. He shook his head. His men had just listened to that. They had just heard what he had. Their morale would have just sunk like his had.

What a load of rubbish. Banks wasn’t expecting the prime minister to give out any secrets or anything silly like that but what had been said had been meaningless. The generalised, sweeping statements had been pointless. There had been no encouragement for anyone listening nor any hope given. The lack of any details was telling though. Nothing had been said on anything specific. News of a victory, even a defeat would have been welcome; the latter spun with propaganda of the enemy taking loses of their own or promises of revenge. Nothing had come though.

Late yesterday, there had come a message to all the men who served within the Wessex Regiment – with the regiment’s second battalion and semi-independent units like the HSF attachments & detachments – concerning a victory won down in Hampshire by the men wearing the regimental badge. An enemy Spetsnaz unit had been taken apart and destroyed by their fellow soldiers, fellow volunteers in uniform. Everyone’s mood had perked right up on that. Banks had felt it too: pride in victory even without being told that that victory would have come at a cost because victories were never won without costs. Still, that had been just the morale boost needed.

Why couldn’t something have been done today? There could have been mention of a naval engagement or a fight in the air. Even a successful defence of some goddamn little hill in Germany somewhere!

What had been spoken of instead?

Dark times.

Testing times.

Banks heard from behind him one of the privates loudly speculate on that: “Has someone dropped the bomb or something stupid like that?”

The latter part of that remark that no one answered was quite an understatement compared to the former part. A chill ran through him. Banks had a terrible, horrible feeling that maybe, just maybe, that might have happened.

He couldn’t shake that thought.



Survival

There had been three of them at first. When Sergeant Zobnin had run away to save himself, Viktor Bogdanovich and Ivan Mikhailovich had done the same. The trio had linked up and got further away from where everyone else had been killed by the British. Zobnin had thought that it was only them who had escaped, but he had been mistaken. Nikolai Konstantinovich had gotten away too and made it to the rally point. He had turned up on a motorcycle that he had stolen from out of the hands of an air raid siren assistant – killing the man in the process – just before Zobnin was to leave the rally point. Too many men knew about the location and not all of them had been killed. The British were moving away from where the fatal engagement had taken place, spreading out across the countryside; the fourth of them had been lucky to reach them in time before he was left all alone in this strange and hostile land.

Since that fortunate link-up, through the night and this morning too, the Spetsnaz had been on the move. They were still running for their lives and Zobnin was certain they were being hunted by a merciless enemy. To keep moving, he knew, meant surviving.


The motorcycle was left behind. There was little petrol anyway and it could hardly carry four of them. Nikolai Konstantinovich wasn’t a skilled rider and neither was Zobnin nor the other two, especially as it would have to be used cross-country, not on paved roads. Zobnin felt that it would bring too much attention as well. They needed to get as far as way as possible from where their comrades had been killed and when doing that, be unseen and unheard too.

They’d covered a lot of ground and Zobnin had them resting at the moment. It was just after midday and the sun was high in the sky. It was turning out to be a terribly hot day and running like they were was unsustainable in such heat without rest as well as water. A stream had been located and their water canteens filled then drunk from. In the shade offered by trees, Zobnin gave his men twenty minutes. He was dead-tired and wanted to close his eyes for sleep: his men were just the same. He couldn’t allow that though. There was a lot of work to do in keeping watch all around them and up above too.

He also wanted to look at what had been Nikolai Konstantinovich said he had taken from the corpse of Captain Panchenko.

“You did well taking it.”

“He was dead, Arkady Sergeyevich, and I didn’t want it to fall into the hands of the enemy.”

“They would have made use of it, but we will instead.”

“I know he would have wanted me to take it. He was a good officer and would want to see us survive.”

‘It’ was their deceased commander’s map case. Panchenko had carried it with him since their arrival in Britain and ever let out of his grasp… until he had been shot down. Contained within the leather case were maps and other pieces of paper full of information. Zobnin had been using the map pushed into his hands by Nikolai Konstantinovich late yesterday to navigate since they had left that rally point following the enemy attack; now he looked at everything else after his comrade handed over all of the contents.

There were so many maps. There were lists of locations as well as radio frequencies too. Details of selective military locations were written down with their purpose, defensive forces and proposed methods of attack. This was a lot of valuable information and Zobnin was amazed that their former commander had been carrying it around, especially everything apart from the maps. He would have thought that all of this would have had to be memorised. Yet, there was quite a bit of information contained within the bits of paper. It was as if Panchenko had been given more than he could ever need to carry out the mission in terms of information to use.

If only there had been some luck too.

“Can you carry on?”

“Of course I can.”

The two of them were sitting on the ground underneath a tree; the other pair of men were nearby but separated and focused on looking outwards. Zobnin saw that his comrade remained pale and looked as terrible as he did that first night of the fighting when he had collapsed outside of that airfield. Zobnin had dragged Nikolai Konstantinovich to safety then and been glad that he hadn’t need to take action against him then less he fall alive into enemy hands. He wouldn’t want to do that now, not when there were only four of them and they were in the situation they were in, but he would if he had no choice.

The yefreytor gave a defiant stare after such a remark, clearing knowing what his sergeant was thinking. Everyone in Spetsnaz knew what happened to those who couldn’t carry on and many had taken their lives of their comrades to save everyone else. It was expected and not frowned upon… unless you were the one having your comrade slit your own throat from behind.

“I need you to be strong.”

“I am tired, Arkasha. I am dehydrated like you are. I was ill and now I am better. I have the pills with me and I will not let you down.”

“Kolya,” Zobnin rested a hand on the shoulder of his comrade and used the affectionate rendering of his name like had been done to him, “we must get away from here. Be strong and we will make it through this.”

“I won’t fail you, nor myself either.”

Zobnin let that rest. He needed his comrade. What had been said was enough. Nikolai Konstantinovich had given his word that he could go on.

“Now, let us decide where we go from here. I think that we should move north. Look here on the map…”


They started moving again soon enough. Yes, it was hot. Yes, they were all still tired. Yes, they all could drink many more litres of water. No, they couldn’t stay where they were.

Each man moved individually. They headed northwards but alone. One man moved forward watched by another and then stopped to watch over his partner; the two others did the same. They ran and jogged, seeking cover when moving through exposed areas yet when not out in the open dashing forward. Hand signals and improvised bird calls were made to signal. Zobnin and Viktor Bogdanovich both had binoculars. They trained them on areas of interest to look for anyone else. They found those too, seeing civilians and paramilitary policemen. No soldiers were spotted though. Still, the others were avoided as if they were. Encounters with no one else at this point were sought. No one was nabbed for information to be gained by them for that meant stopping and slowing down. Zobnin was wary of someone who might be taken being missed too and that bringing attention. He knew where he was going and his men were being careful in spotting obstructions in the terms of people to avoid. The British would know that he and the others got away yesterday and would be extending their search area. They had vehicles and could do that faster than he could outrun it but he was slipping through their searches.

It was hard going. How Zobnin longed for further rest. He would even have liked to travel in a straight line too, so he could get where he was going faster. The effective zig-zagging taking place took so long.

However, it was keeping eyes off them. Being spotted either individually or, worse, as a group, would be fatal for them. They had to get where they were going without being detected. When darkness came – so many hours away – those restrictions on being seen would be lessened without light available for that to occur. Until then, this would continue.

Nikolai Konstantinovich was covering him with his eyes, ears and his rifle and so Zobnin ran. He panted like he was about to have a heart attack and his mouth was painfully dry. Regardless, he carried onwards. He went through some trees at the edge of a field and towards the other side of that open field. He crashed through the undergrowth and across the dried mud. He maintained his balance despite the efforts of the ground to bring him down. There were flies he worried over swallowing and cobwebs touched his face. The pack on his back and the weapons he was carrying – his assault rifle, the policeman’s pistol and his two knives – all weighted him down. Still, he carried on.

This couldn’t continue though. He knew it. Something else would have to be done. They could cover more ground tonight but to get where he wanted to go, travelling on foot wasn’t going to work. A vehicle would be needed. He started to think on how that could be achieved and how to negate the risks. That would be a challenge, to put it mildly. There was no other choice though. All of the previous hides and supply/weapons dumps that they had used before were compromised by the capture of several men yesterday. No one of those places were anywhere near he and his surviving comrades could go. The traps around them would be known to the enemy and so too the warning signs left to alert detection.

Zobnin was thinking of somewhere else he had seen on Panchenko’s maps. A safe location marked out. Somewhere to hide out in the middle of nowhere where decisions could be made on the future. That lay a considerable distance away to the north though. Getting there like this meant the ever-increasing chance of being caught. He had to get himself and his men there to the safety he had told himself it promised.

When darkness came, many long hours away, he would put his mind to finding a way of doing that. It would be a struggle but survival was all about the struggle.



Lothario

Surveillance officers were all over Inspector Dickenson with his movements being monitored closely at all times when he was away from his home. Where the senior officer with Hampshire Police went, what he did and who he spoke to was under full observation. There were some signs that he might have been aware of that though nothing concrete to prove such a theory. Other voices remained calling for him to be taken immediately into custody yet standing instructions from above for the MI-5 team involved was to watch and wait.

His actions could lead the military team hunting Soviet Spetsnaz groups right to them.

Dickenson’s wife was to be watched just like he was too. The young woman whom the middle-aged policeman had married was considered to be as viable as a Soviet agent as he was. There was some doubt over whether she was as dangerous as he was though because she was a woman. Lucy Hunt had bitten her tongue when hearing such a stupid remark from Jack to that effect. That was probably just what the GRU would have wanted thought about Eleanor Dickenson and she considered Jack a fool for being deceived like that when he had the experience as she did of such a thing being done before in other cases.

The best spies, she had once been taught, are those no one would ever dare to think would be a spy.

Jack’s foolish opinion of the danger posed by Dickenson’s wife didn’t stop him from having Lucy join him in tracking her movements though. He wanted to know everything about her recent activity as she did what her husband did and had a civil service job that allowed her to travel all over the place assisting the war effort in an official capacity. Like Jack had been, Lucy was rather shocked to see the initial scope of where Dickenson’s wife had recently been going what she had been doing. Her visits to military bases across the South of England had been numerous. She had been in contact with military and civilian figures as part of her job supporting the treatment of casualties returning from the fighting taking place on the Continent. There had been plenty of opportunities for her to pass and receive messages from people as well as to do the same with the suspected means of radio communication that there were with the Spetsnaz known to be active.

As far as Lucy was concerned, while the husband was the bigger prize, his wife was a close second and she was the key to getting them both plus finding out where the Soviet commandos were hiding.


The woman whose recent movements the two of them were focused upon had been to military and civilian sites across more than half a dozen counties since the war had started. Eleanor Dickenson had a travel pass for her vehicle and permission to draw from petrol stocks. Operating out of the military base in Wiltshire, Corunna Barracks in Ludgershall, she had travelled as far as Dorset, Gloucestershire, Oxfordshire, Surrey and East Sussex as well as through Hampshire and Berkshire too. Her civilian job with the NHS effort that was acting in concert with the Royal Army Medical Services had taken her far. All of those had been officially sanctioned visits allowing her to travel through checkpoints on the roads and guard posts at the locations she went to.

There were written records of all of that travelling done and visits made.

Lucy and Jack had been at Ludgershall this morning – staying out of the subject of their investigation’s way – looking at those records and comparing it to recent significant events. They had been trying to link her movements with attacks made by Spetsnaz. There was some information that they had been provided with as well when it came to detection of unexplained radio broadcasts made through the South of England that Jack was hopeful would provide a better link. Lucy had had another idea and that had paid off: looking at other reports that had been made to police and the authorities recently of violent occurrences near to where their subject was reported to have been. That had paid off and brought them to the North Wessex Downs this afternoon.

They were in the tiny village of Winterbourne Monkton where there had been a murder yesterday morning.

Wiltshire Police was hurting after the loss of many officers on patrol and helping with Transition to War measures that had been murdered or were missing presumed dead. Dozens of casualties had been sustained by the county force as they were engaged by a foe that was merciless and they couldn’t combat. The British Army was moving into the area in force to take on the Spetsnaz that had struck across Wiltshire yet that was still not fully complete. Even then, the policemen were still needed to man roadblocks and also try to maintain civil order. They faced death seemingly at every moment and from what Lucy could gather, they were not happy at this. Regardless, they went about their duties and when doing so alerted to a young woman in distress claiming that her boyfriend had been killed. Upon attending, they had found a hysterical teenager and the body of a man who had been shot to death. A report had been made but there had been so many missing details… plus the corpses of several fellow policemen found several hours later a dozen miles away missing their uniforms, weapons and radios to distract attention from the murder that they had responded to. There had been a thought that the two events were linked but that was then discounted.

The police had no idea who had killed the man who his nineteen year-old girlfriend only knew as ‘Rich’ – they’d been involved for a week and it was a very modern relationship – but Lucy did after reading the report. Eleanor Dickenson had gone through checkpoints on the road that passed by yesterday on her way to Wroughton airfield and the military hospital next to that. Rich, from the police report she had read when back at Ludgershall, could have been the missing Richard Young. Once she and Jack arrived here, they found that that was the case with the identity of the corpse. Moreover, they also had a statement made by one of the policemen who had let their subject through the roadblock he had been manning when he had said the picture of her they had was the woman in the car with the correct license plates.

Now, for the girl.


“Good afternoon, Emma. I’m Lucy. Can we have a little talk?”

A cuppa, a friendly smile and an approach that had worked many times. Jack was outside the room and Lucy was putting on her new-best-friend-so-trust-me show.

“Are you with the police?”

“No, I’m with a government department.”

“Erm…” That seemed to throw Emma off but didn’t seem to bother her though. “What do you want to know? I’ve told the police everything. I’d like to go home. My parents down in Portsmouth will be…”

“Emma,” Lucy softly cut in, “I’ll sort out getting you back to them myself as soon as we are finished.

Tell me about Rich. How did you two meet? What was he like? Did you love him?”

Emma started talking. She didn’t shut up for some time. Lucy had tried an approach that the police certainly wouldn’t have and it worked. The girl was still in shock at what had happened and spoke of Rich like he was still alive. Their mad romance was described in detail including the sex bits that Emma added in with candid honesty within the privacy of the two of them. Lucy kept nodding and making sympathetic noises. Emma had a few tears fall when Lucy edged the conversation slowly to what had happened yesterday morning and a tissue was timely handed over to wipe them. Lucy kept the focus upon Emma and what she saw, heard and especially felt when it came to the murder of the girl’s boyfriend.

There was so much more that Emma told Lucy than the girl had told the police.

Lucy asked for a few moments to speak to her colleague before sorting out a return home for Emma and went to discuss what she had with Jack. He was right outside, smoking and looking around as if clues could be found there when they had all been with the girl.

“So… what did Emma tell Auntie Lucy then?”

“A lot.” Lucy felt a little drained – Emma had gone on and on – but could recall everything perfectly. “She told me about how he picked her up in Portsmouth and turned on the charm pretty fast. He was a sweet talker, Rich was, a real Lothario by the sounds of it.

He talked her into his minivan, did the business with her and deposited her here. He was out on the road – selling cannabis he told her – before returning back to her when the war started in a car she hadn’t seen him in before. They stayed in the house smoking the marijuana and in bed together. He wasn’t using any radio equipment that she saw nor was there anyone who came to the house.”

“Until yesterday?”

“Yes, Jack, until yesterday.”

“Someone knocked at the door, waking them up. Rich told her to hide under the bed and she did. She heard a woman’s voice outside, Rich opening the front door then a crash of furniture. Emma went to the bedroom window and saw a woman walking away: long, dark hair with a slim figure wearing a brown coat. That matches Eleanor and what the policeman remembers.

Emma went to the hallway when she was sure that the woman wasn’t coming in and then went to see where Rich was. She thought that the woman was a policewoman by the look of her – I’m not sure what exactly gave Emma that impression – then she found Rich dead on the ground and the front door closed behind him. She heard a car drive away but didn’t get a look.

After that, Emma’s memories are a bit fussy: I think she had a lot more of the cannabis.”

Jack had been listening and had lit another cigarette. He looked a bit doubtful. “I’m not saying that Eleanor Dickenson wasn’t here and didn’t do this. I think she did come here and kill him. I just worry that the girl didn’t see her directly either do it or her face.”

“But we don’t need her for identification or a court case or anything like that, Jack.”

“True.” He conceded that point. “I’d like more confirmation though. Just to be sure, really sure. For her husband to send her here to do a man’s job seems…”

“Oh, c’mon.” Lucy snapped at him.

“What?” Innocence written all over his face.

Lucy shook her head. The argument had been had before and would be again. It was one for another time, not now. The details that Emma had given them about where and when Richard Young had met with her were what was important. So too were the places he had stopped on the way the night he took her here where he had met with people. Then was also the fact that Eleanor Dickenson had been sent here to kill him and not bothered to look inside the house before or after she had done that. She was an amateur at this.

Now, she and Jack would decide what to do with all that they had learnt. How to catch their subject in the act of communicating with the Spetsnaz was the key. Where would what had been discovered here help with that?

“What do we do with the girl?”

Lucy didn’t want Emma to remain here. The local vicar had put her up with him and his wife but it wasn’t really the best idea. Dickenson might send his killer wife again, or maybe someone else, to finish her off if he learnt of her existence: he did have friends in neighbouring police forces away from his own. Emma was only a confused teenager.

“We’ll make sure she gets home to Portsmouth. The Navy have the whole area under guard as a closed town so she’ll be okay there.”

“Yeah, I’ll sleep better knowing that.”

For once, Jack wasn’t being a complete bastard. He was leaving that to others such as the man who’d sent his wife here to kill and before that done away with that other young woman at Hampshire Police headquarters. Lucy couldn’t wait to see the bastard that was Michael Dickenson eventually get a taste of his own medicine. She hoped it wouldn’t take too long. The deaths and emotional trauma that this man was causing were everywhere.

Furthermore, before then, she hoped to get his wife alone and talk with her. How would that play out?



On Time

Eleanor started making the radio broadcast exactly at seven o’clock, right on time. She had already activated the transmitting-only system after carefully disabling the anti-tampering self-destruct protection. Number sequences were tapped in as she sat on the ground following what was written on the piece of paper she would burn with a match afterwards.

654–778–401–691–534

It went on and on. Three numbers after three numbers were entered on the number-pad and transformed into a radio signal that went out. Each trio meant either one letter or one other number each time. After the first time that the trio was used to convey that character to be encoded at the other end, the sequence for that letter or number would change the next time it was sent. Some of the trios of code were also false and would be ignored on the other end as well. Codebreaking was something that Eleanor only had a limited knowledge of, yet she understood how the sequences she was sending out were designed to stop this code being cracked and understood for what it all meant. She kept on typing, following the hand-written numbers.

303–817–752–762–189

She and the radio were within some trees near to the house she and Michael shared. It was far too close to home. The distance was less than a mile. This was an emergency transmitter that was buried here and contained within water-proof plastic that she had to dig out of the ground all the while taking note of her surroundings less someone be nearby. The antenna had to be strung up into the tree as well; all of which was hard work. Michael had only told her about this transmitter this morning after she had previously been sent to do the same with sending numbers from other sites further away from where they lived that were hidden across the countryside.

432–117–399–458–027

Like the other radios Eleanor had been using, this one was entirely built here in the West. It was constructed from electronic components that had been designed and manufactured through Western Europe, the United States and Japan. Its technology was entirely different from anything that Soviet military or intelligence usually used of their own manufacture, even with stolen Western technology adapted for their own use. The GRU took no chances when it came to the radio communications security for its officers and wanted them to have the best available despite the politics. She knew only what she needed to about how it all worked though, just that it would do the job. More numbers were tapped in.

866–932–725–113–550

Michael had told her that those at the other end had the means to decode what she sent them fast. These numbers she transmitted and those numbers they had only matched up today too. It would tell them information that he had received from his contacts as two where Gryphon missiles aimed at the Rodina could be found. She didn’t know who he had been sent information from just that she had picked up messages from them and passed them to him: those had been encoded like these. Her curiosity on the matter was naturally there but she hadn’t asked who this people where and how they apparently knew what they did.

587–522–490–165–501

She had been sent to use this transmitter because Michael said he was sure now that the British Chekists were onto him. They were watching him and those who he met with. His earlier suspicions had been proved to be correct, he had said, and somewhere he had been either detected or betrayed. Eleanor had asked whether they should they run and set themselves up in one of the many hidden locations they knew about rather than fall into the hands of the British state security services; no, had come the response, we follow orders and complete our mission until we can no more. Her desire to argue and state that their orders were to not be captured and interrogated had been crushed by his manner of ordering her about. The mission to support the Spetsnaz with information was of more importance.

050–794–200–289–153

Almost done.

And then Eleanor entered the final three-digit sequence of what should be gibberish: 221.

The burst transmissions finished when the LED light turned red. The small piece of paper was burnt first. She watched it completely destroyed following the magic of the flame when it came to destruction. Next, Eleanor stood up and unravelled the antenna wire from the branch above her; that was then coiled around the radio after it was switched off. The anti-tamper device was set – far easier to set rather than disable – and then she lifted the radio into the plastic covering. That was resealed before she put it back into the hole in the ground.

Now for the fun. The handheld spade was easy to use but time consuming even when replacing the earth after having to dig it out earlier. She stayed on her elbow and knees as the radio was buried in its shallow grave before smoothing over the top soil. Sweat ran down her forehead working as quickly as she did and she ached at her joints. Nonetheless, this had to be done and done properly as well. There could be no half-measures: it couldn’t be found by someone either accidently or on purpose.


She went back to the house. Eleanor walked – running would draw more attention if seen than walking – through as much cover from casual observation as possible though was out in the open for far too long. She couldn’t see eyes on her but felt them from unknown sources.

Their house was on the edge of the village and backed onto fields with trees beyond. There should be no one out here and there wasn’t yet there were other houses. Neighbours could easily see her should they be looking out of their windows. They would know who she was, Mrs. Dickenson, the wife of their police officer neighbour, and not be concerned but they would recall seeing her if asked. Nothing else could be done though. That message she had sent had to go out this evening at the allotted time. There would be those she had been in contact with whom could have risked detection to be waiting for her broadcast. Night time would have been better, Michael had said, but the Spetsnaz needed to travel to where they were sent at night. The days were so short at this time of year and with only a few hours of darkness, those were precious hours that couldn’t be wasted.

Eleanor reached the gate at the end of the garden and went inside. She at once looked for the markers left behind and saw that no one had moved them by coming through here. The whole house and grounds were covered with those: small, inconsequential things like hairs inside and tiny pebbles outside. They were placed where they could be knocked into without someone realising yet that she and Michael would note the movement of. This time, no one had touched the markers here.

Some of those inside the house had been moved during the day when the two of them were out. Someone had therefore been inside the house looking around.

As Eleanor crossed the garden and went to the back door, she thought of Michael out at the minute in his car driving around. He wasn’t going anywhere near any radio transmitters nor any of his contacts. He was instead leading those he would be sure to try and follow him on a merry trip. There would be things he would do to attract their attention: he would get out of the car and go into cover for a few moments and at other points stop and talk to anyone he saw.

He was the distraction for her doing what she had with the radio.

No one had come into the house the short time she had been out. The hair Eleanor had left inside the door, ready to be blown away when the door open, was still there at the edge of the rug. She took her walking boots and coat off and went deeper into the house. Michael would be home soon.

They needed to discuss what to do tomorrow. Clearly, this sneaking about of hers wasn’t going to work in the long run, not after those he said were watching would run down what ‘leads’ they thought they had from his behaviour tonight to realise they had been deceived. Eleanor set about waiting for him to come home and thinking of how to raise the subject and make him see sense. The mission was important and he wouldn’t allow them to run and abandon their duties but they couldn’t carry on doing them like this.

There must be, she told herself she would say, another way.



Logistics

Logistics win wars.

Access to regular and accurate intelligence is important. Tactics and morale are key elements of success. Technological superiority is of great significance. Effective communications are valuable. Yet, it is the ability to supply forces in the field on-time and with all that they need that wins wars. Take anything else out and a war can still be won; remove the ability for proper logistic support and a war will be lost. This position was one widely disputed by those who favour a clever intelligence coup, battlefield mobility, the latest technology or the most secure means of communications but it was the defining factor in modern warfare.

Everyone fighting in a war and all those who supported them directly or indirectly needed the tools to get the job done. They had to be supplied with weapons, ammunition and combat equipment. Fuel, food & water (fresh & clean) and medical supplies had to get through to them. Spare parts and replacements for equipment were needed for those supporting the fighting. Prisoners and the wounded had to be evacuated back away from combat and reinforcements sent forward. Whether it was across land, over the sea or through the air, supplies had to move forward and the logistics chain had to run backwards as well. It needed organising, maintaining and protecting too. Military forces fighting half a world away from their home nation or even within their own country all needed to be kept supplied so they could continue to fight.

Without proper logistics, within hours – not days or week – men engaged in warfare would be fighting with stick and stones rather than automatic rifles and guided missiles.


To defend the logistics network in the operational area of the South of England where 2 WESSEX was deployed to had been Lt.-Colonel Pearson’s mission from the start. The active hunt for the Spetsnaz active across the countryside going after Cruise operated by the Americans had been an unnecessary distraction and had been removed from his assigned task. There remained a security threat still yet it was smaller and more contained. The victory won yesterday by some of his men when they had destroyed a platoon-sized force of Soviet special forces had been vital as it removed from the opposition one of their two main forces. Another detachment of enemy soldiers who camouflaged everything about themselves and disappeared like chameleons into the countryside was still out there and active with Hampshire, yet the threat had been halved. Moreover, those that were left were on the run and were struggling to stay alive rather than do what they had been before and pose a threat to the transportation links that Pearson’s men were to protect.

Trying to make sure that neither he nor his subordinates were complacent, Pearson still felt that he had achieved a lot after a shaky start. The enemy hadn’t been thoroughly defeated yet – especially away to the west where they were still trying to hit the Americans – but they were soon to be a spent force. They had run out of steam and their surprise factor was gone; they could no longer pose a serious threat to the logistics effort that was ongoing to support the war being raged on the Continent. Since late yesterday and all through today, there had been no more enemy strikes on what 2 WESSEX was defending. The other Spetsnaz raiding force was hiding somewhere while lone-wolf style attacks by either KGB operatives or British traitors were no longer taking place as they were all dead, taken prisoner or on the run too.

The supply convoys were on the main roads tonight heading towards the airports and the seaports. Now back at Brock Barracks in Reading where his battalion headquarters remained, Pearson was monitoring the progress of them through his operational area as they moved under the watchful eyes of his TA men out there tonight too.

There were several on the move.


Heading down the M3 towards the ports on the South Coast were trucks trailing low-loaders that Centurion tanks were aboard. These had been pulled from storage when Transition to War had begun and given hasty maintenance and checks over the past few days. That had taken place at various locations far and wide before there were over a hundred of them gathered together whilst on the move already and formed in a convoy that had moved around the western reaches of the M25 before joining the M3. The tanks were old but still effective weapons of war. Pearson hadn’t been told what was the intention of them when they arrived on the Continent – whether they would be the centrepiece of new units, issued as replacements elsewhere or something else –, just that they had to get there. There were ships waiting at Southampton, Gosport and Portsmouth for the arrival of the tanks which would remain on the low-loaders, not the trucks, as they went aboard them. The ships were all civilian vessels which came from many nations and would make the crossing to France or maybe Belgium; again, Pearson didn’t know the full details. The British Army wanted those tanks and they would be transported to them via ships leaving in the morning and under escort of the Royal Navy.

Moving westwards along the M4 as it ran through Berkshire was another convoy of many trucks – military and some civilian lorries impressed in military service too – though these were empty. They were still in need of safe passage because they were being used again and again. These were heading towards the American military depot at Caerwent in South Wales and would be running equipment and ammunition back the other way when they got there towards North Sea harbours through Essex and Suffolk. Pearson knew that there were closer seaports that those there on the other side of the country to where the depot was across the River Severn estuary and wasn’t sure why such a long route was being taken, but it was regardless of what he had and hadn’t been told. The M4 motorway there was seeing those vehicles speed along with nothing to hold them up and Pearson’s men at various locations next to and near to the transportation route.

The big ones moving tonight were joined by other medium and small convoys. Those vehicles brought together were laden with all sorts of wares and sometimes men in uniform too. The use of convoys was a security measures where numbers meant strength in terms of protection that could be given. There were moving between military and civilian locations to collect and drop off what was carried. Some were on the motorways – the coastal M27 included – with others on some of the many A-roads that ran through Berkshire, Hampshire and Wiltshire too. There had been efforts by the police to clear parts of those roads from the people from the cities who had fled their homes in panic at the thought of nuclear war and were crowding them after they had left themselves stranded. Those civilian refugees in their own country were being helped where it was possible by local authorities yet Pearson knew it was a struggle and not taking place everywhere. Convoys were being diverted around blocked parts of roads where they should have gone through them.

Military airfields and civilian airports were receiving a good proportion of these convoys and so too were seaports along the coast; they were dropping off and picking up cargoes of men and goods going to and coming from the war being fought overseas. Others were making internal movements too though. There was a logistical effort internally between sites that were supporting the war effort from afar. This was just as important to the overall supply network as well as external movements.


Pearson was at his battalion headquarters while his men were out there tonight on duty. He knew where they were and what they were doing. In addition, he was aware of what they weren’t doing: providing direct protection for each convoys of vehicles. His men weren’t in vehicles of their own – which 2 WESSEX didn’t have many of – nor travelling in those of other acting in a travelling shotgun faction. That was a job for others.

His companies of TA soldiers were instead spread across the transportation corridors. They were running patrols acting on as much local intelligence as possible from Home Service Force detachments as well as those from the different county police forces. Fixed guard points were out for 2 WESSEX as that depleted manpower and killed effectiveness. All the success that the battalion had since the start of the war – not too much, but anything was better than nothing – had come from these roving patrols of men moving carefully through the countryside and ready to react to local reports from elsewhere. The enemy would be drawn to the transportation routes & installations and so those were protected in this manner.

Pearson’s battalion was playing their role in the logistics effort to support the ongoing war just as they should.

Here in his command centre with his maps, radios and the intelligence reports – including the one about what was found among the corpses of the dead Spetsnaz from yesterday – there was nothing that told him of what was going on with that war. Of the fighting on the Continent or elsewhere, Pearson knew nothing.

He wondered how it was all going there… or rather, how bad it was.

[James G]

The Sixth Day

Porridge

The house was empty. Sergeant Zobnin had told the men with him that there was no one inside. They had been weary but had trusted his judgement. Inwards, he doubted himself yet he didn’t let that show. He told himself just what he told those with him who were on the run and running out of time: the house was empty.

At dawn, they went up to and inside the house.

The four Spetsnaz soldiers were looking for shelter, somewhere to sleep (for the morning after a long night of travelling on foot) and something to eat too… even if it was porridge.

None of them knew the story of Goldilocks.


Nikolai Konstantinovich and Viktor Bogdanovich covered the other two from a distance with eyes and rifles pointed outwards. Zobnin took Ivan Mikhailovich with him to go into the lonely house. They came from the rear and went over a low wall with haste. Once in the small garden, Zobnin pushed his comrade onwards towards the rear door while he kept watch for a reaction. Ivan Mikhailovich was the smallest of all of them and Zobnin had told him that he was built to be a burglar; if he couldn’t open a door, he could go through a window. The private hadn’t found that amusing but did as he was told. He broke the glass in the door with the end of his rifle that was wrapped in his field jacket and then did his best to get rid of what glass remained. Zobnin watched his comrade do that while also trying to focus on the windows for someone to show up at those. No one did though because the house was empty.

Ivan Mikhailovich called out a curse and Zobnin presumed that he’d cut himself but the door was opened. There was no need for him to go through a window as there was now a proper entrance. In the private went and his sergeant sprinted across the unkept lawn to follow him.

The house was dark yet cool. Zobnin stepped past Ivan Mikhailovich in the doorway and moved across the kitchen. He was out of the oppressive heat outside – there had been no let-up in the overnight temperature – and was pleased to be somewhere cool. His comrade started to open the cupboards all around them yet Zobnin told him that they needed to check the rest of the house first. Cover me, Zobnin told him, and I’ll cover you.

It was a quick search. The downstairs rooms were moved through first and then they went upstairs. There was no one home and it didn’t look like anyone had been here in some time. There were signs that those who had lived here – parents and two children by the look of it – had packed up and gone. Zobnin was relieved to have what had only been an assumption on his part that the house was empty come true. He was sure that no one would come back here at any time this morning and find them hiding away.

Secure and feeling safe, Zobnin had Ivan Mikhailovich alert the other two to come up to the house. He himself went into the kitchen and started looking for food. They were all hungry and tired. They would eat anything and sleep on the floor for a few hours… before eating again when they woke too.


They slept in two shifts of three hours each. Ivan Mikhailovich and Nikolai Konstantinovich went first with Zobnin keeping Viktor Bogdanovich awake with him. They ate some more whilst they waited for their turn though didn’t stay in the kitchen where their comrades were on the floor and both snoring. The first of the two who had been allowed to get some rest first wanted to sleep up in one of the beds or even on the sofa in the living room, but Zobnin had said no to Ivan Mikhailovich. That is where he wanted everyone, near the rear door but inside for the morning.

Trying to keep awake while others were sleeping was never easy. Zobnin and Viktor Bogdanovich were just as tired and had to force themselves to stay awake and alert. They stayed inside the house and on their feet. Zobnin searched through the rooms and his comrade watched the road from the window in the master bedroom; Zobnin several times checked to make sure that he hadn’t dropped down on the bed.

There was a locked metal box that Zobnin forced open. It appeared to be for a rifle and he discovered that it was yet that was gone. The homeowner had taken it with him when he and his family had left. Zobnin wondered if the man was one of those vigilantes or whether it was taken to protect his family from whatever might come when they were on the move. He could only assume that the family had decided to run away fearful of a nuclear war. When Zobnin had looked at the map, he had seen how there were two big targets in any nuclear war not that far away from here. Greenham Common was to the northwest and Aldermaston to the northeast.

If he lived here, he wondered as he ate sardines from a tin found in the kitchen, would he want to stay?


Zobnin awoke to the sounds of his men talking loudly. He opened his eyes and was about to tell them to shut up when he saw Ivan Mikhailovich bash Viktor Bogdanovich’s head into the wall beside the door. Nikolai Konstantinovich stepped over Zobnin and tried to get between them calling out as he did that arguing amongst themselves would only get them all killed.

He ached everywhere and wanted to stay where he was to let them sort it out for themselves yet Zobnin saw that Viktor Bogdanovich was on the floor and not moving.

Zobnin jumped up. He pushed Ivan Mikhailovich back across the room as the private started to complain that it wasn’t his fault. As he turned back to see what damage had been done, Zobnin was told by Nikolai Konstantinovich that Viktor Bogdanovich was dead: the yefreytor had his neck broken.

For a moment, Ivan Mikhailovich looked ready to fight the two of them. Zobnin and Nikolai Konstantinovich both approached him as he backed away but then the killer of their comrade dropped his risen fists and his head too. He muttered that Viktor Bogdanovich had woken up before Zobnin and had been eating the last of the food: the pack of oats he was gorging on could have been used to make porridge. What would the rest of them eat, he said, if his comrade ate everything? He hadn’t meant to kill him, it was an accident.

There had been three of them initially, then four of them on the run yet now there were only three again.


Ivan Mikhailovich was allowed to live. Zobnin had wanted to punish him yet he needed him. He had needed the deceased Viktor Bogdanovich too. There would come a time later for punishment, just not today.

At midday, they departed the house. The body of their comrade was hidden and they moved not far from the house but far enough. Zobnin took them up onto a hill and among the trees there they scouted the whole area in daylight using their binoculars. Armed men were seen off to both the south and east. They appeared to be manning roadblocks yet were numerous and Zobnin doubted that with only him and the two others, they could be overcome in a surprise assault. Thankfully, he was going nowhere near them. His attention was to the north where the main road – what was called the M4 motorway – ran. It would be guarded even though he couldn’t see any guards from here.

That place of safety identified on the map taken from the body of Captain Panchenko was past that road, away to the north. Once the day got much later and darkness approached, Zobnin could take his men up to near that road ready to cross it either tonight or in the early hours.

The three of them would cross that road, Zobnin had decided, for it would need three men to do. However, he’d only need one man with him to get as far as that apparent safehouse further away.

Ivan Mikhailovich wouldn’t reach that place of safety.



Boredom

The activity that had been so intense over several days had ceased.

Through yesterday and the day before there had been just what Sergeant Banks expected to see today as well: nothing much going on. The clearing of the protesters outside RAF Greenham Common and then the shooting incident here at the roadblock beside the motorway were all in the past. There continued to be the passing of military convoys moving either east or west along the M4 but nothing else was going on. Thames Valley Police were maintaining their effective distant blockage to civilian traffic – if there was any of that left by now with the restrictions on petrol – to come near the motorway junction where the Home Service Force volunteer soldiers with Banks were. There was no news of the distant war being fought on the Continent or maybe in the skies above and the seas around Britain.

It was looking like it was going to be another scorching hot day. Banks was hoping that rain would come later: a downpour complete with thunder and lightening. Such weather would get rid of the muggy air and cool all of the men off if Banks could figure how not to get them out of rain he desired in time. He wanted that downpour because operating as everyone needed to be in these conditions was unpleasant. It made everyone lethargic and wanting to sit down in the shade. Fresh water to drink was all the men thought about over and over again as their mouths were dry; then they kept wandering off to relieve themselves when they had been told again and again of the danger of being caught alone less the ‘Speckles’ show up.

Banks knew that such conditions as these only compounded the feeling of boredom that the ten men with him had. He tried to keep them busy and their morale up, yet it was rather challenging. The men felt like they had nothing to do and that they could take it easy here because nothing was going on. The murder of the policeman the other evening and then Banks shooting that mystery assailant was seemingly forgotten by them. That excitement was over and so too was the danger that came with it. The Speckles were finished as a threat and they could take it easy.

Everyone was completing their assigned duties in keeping watch over the area and taking part in the patrols Banks ran, but they were taking it easy. The war was elsewhere. They were bored. They didn’t want to be charging around in the heat with the exhaustion that came with that. It took every ounce of inner strength that Banks had to not join them.

The danger to them, the policemen they protected and the motorway junction with the flyover they guarded certainly hadn’t gone away.


Leading by example, Banks was with this morning’s patrol that saw him take three more men away from the flyover and move through the surrounding countryside. He didn’t stray too far and stayed in radio contact with Corporal MacGregor who remained left with the rest of his rifle section. MacGregor still held the grudge at his authority being subsumed like it was by Banks’ arrival and had enquired casually if Banks was return to the company staff or even the Reading Platoon. Banks had purposely avoiding giving a response to that. He had no idea but wanted MacGregor to think that he did and wasn’t letting him know. It was petty and childish… but MacGregor was a tosser so it didn’t matter.

They went southeast from the junction and away from the motorway services. The sun rose higher in the sky and it only got warmer yet that encouraged the men to reach the shade of the trees that formed the woodland quickly. Banks split the detachment into two pairs yet they stayed within sight of each other. There was nothing that Banks expected to find but he kept reminding those with him to keep their eyes open for anything that might be of interest. See if there were any signs that someone has been here recently, he told them, especially anything that would suggest someone using this spot to observe the junction from a distance. There was a village on the other side of the trees and when he had that in-sight, Banks changed the frequency on the radio he was carrying to what he was told was that of the Royal Engineers who would be active near to Curridge. Not far away was the Royal School of Military Survey and there were some soldiers who hadn’t left the small Denison Barracks up at Hermitage to join their fellow geographic surveyors in Germany. They would be patrolling away from their barracks though Banks didn’t know why those men had stayed behind when there would be a need for them on the Continent. Whatever the reason, there was a reasonable expectation of running into them near to their base of operations as they would be doing what he was and checking out the countryside for threats real or imagined; the latter to keep men active.

He spoke with a sergeant on the other end and there was an exchange of call-signs then an authentication password. Banks felt like a spook with the password exchange but it was changed daily and used as it was as a security measure. No men from Denison Barracks were out towards Curridge or anywhere west of the barracks today. If Banks’ men ran into anyone with guns, they weren’t sappers on patrol; they could be called on to help though if needed, that was a certainty.

Banks let his men have a little rest to take the weight off their feet and drink from their canteens. He made sure that was only short and then got them moving again, swapping the men around so he had a different man with him partnering him. Onwards he led the detachment as he continued to have them move through the trees and in the shade. The ground had hardened and was uneven, yet they made good progress as he led them northward. Banks checked his map and saw that he was going the right way when he found himself to the right of the quarry that was soon below him and the motorway lay ahead. They came out of the trees again and Banks looked skywards hoping for dark clouds promising rain incoming yet saw nothing but bright and clear skies.

It was ridiculous! Didn’t it always rain when it was the height of summer, especially here with the great British weather being what it was?


Lance Corporal Turner and Private Cartwright ‘greeted’ them when they returned. That greeting began with the Bren Gun that the latter carried pointed in their general direction as they came back (it was quickly lowered) and the Turner walking in-step alongside Banks as he went back to their main position.

Turner wanted to know if Banks had seen anything of note and was disappointed to find out that there hadn’t been. He was the only one apart from Banks who understood the morale issues that came with the inactivity and the associated boredom though he didn’t think it was as serious as Banks did. The lance corporal had wanted to come out on the patrol yet Banks had told him that he didn’t dare leave MacGregor on his own. If something had happened when they were out on patrol, if there had been a sign of trouble, Banks would have wanted Turner to be present in navigating the way to him bringing help instead of MacGregor.

What next was what Turner wanted to know; Banks told him to take another patrol out this evening, going southwest this time though not straying too far. His subordinate didn’t look too keen – when only a few hours ago he had wanted to go with Banks – but didn’t object. Banks would make sure that those with Turner took water with them and he’d send them towards the woodlands over in that direction. It would keep them in some shade and also moving through an area where it was necessary to patrol. None of this was going to win him any friends with the men but it was all necessary. They couldn’t remain sitting on their behinds here and doing nothing. Officially, the security threat remained as high as it was and the Spetsnaz – Speckles: Private Rogers’ name for them – were apparently still active.

Banks had to keep his men alert and ready to fight. That meant doing something, something worthwhile. He wasn’t about to give into the boredom like his body wanted to. He just wouldn’t have that, not while however many millions were fighting for their lives in the war that continued to rage (as far as he knew anyway) as it was elsewhere.



Fire

Michael had told her to stay home from her new place of work today and call in ill.

Being a civilian semi-conscripted into working for the Armed Forces during wartime, there was an expectation that Eleanor should be available and that if there was a health problem someone in uniform would want to see her. Eleanor chose the right person to call based on her person relationships already built and promised to get back in touch by this evening. It wasn’t easy, but it was achieved. Not turning up tomorrow would draw attention, Michael had said, yet by then they would be gone and far away.

He had made the decision when they had been talking last night. Michael had decided that the two of them needed to make an escape before they were caught. The cover that they as GRU officers living under the identities of Britons here was almost certainly blown. He had listened to what she had said and taken that onboard though made it clear that he was the one in charge and so as her senior officer it was ultimately his decision. Michael didn’t want to see himself, nor her either, caught and interrogated by the British. There were already measures that he had set into place to continue to operate while on the run and while they were far from easy, that would have to do in the situation they were in. There remained Spetsnaz troops who needed their guidance to find those missiles pointed at the Rodina and destroy them before they could fly eastwards.

The morning had been spent getting ready. Eleanor packed what they would need to take with them and that in the main consisted of maps and waterproof clothing. Where they were going to had everything else that they would need yet it would be a long journey through the afternoon and evening to reach there by nightfall. The maps were extremely detailed and covered more than just that one route to where they would hide out but also allow them to operate elsewhere; the raincoats and wellington boots were for the walk in the expected rain that was due to come later. While she did that packing, and nervously looked at the clock waiting on midday, she waited for Michael to be finished in the garden.

He was having a nice little fire. Nothing big and dramatic, just something small and controlled. Her fellow intelligence officer carefully destroyed pieces of paper and small electronic devices. He also got rid of the chemical sprays he had used all across the house and inside their two cars this morning went in that fire too. Those were plastic bottles disguised as hair products went into the fire so they couldn’t be easily examined by trained chemists to determine how to overcome the fatal masking effect that they had after being used on fabrics and clothes. Some dogs brought into the house to pick up their trail, Michael had said, were going to drop dead on the spot with one sniff of the poison he’d laid; others wouldn’t get a track on their scent.

Midday came and the signal to go came. That was the second fire that Michael had set of the day, this one being the empty house next door to their own where there was someone watching them from.


It was ten minutes before Eleanor turned to look back over her shoulder. They’d gone out via the garden and the way she had been last night to use that hidden radio. The smoke and the flames were visible.

“That will take a-hold of our house too!” She’d never thought of the house that she shared with Michael as home before but today she did.

“There’s no time to worry about that; move onwards.”

Michael hadn’t stopped and called back to her with impatience. She ran after him as they went through the trees heading northwards. He slipped and stumbled for a moment but quickly regained his balance. Michael set the pace and she followed.

The run they made was unnecessary. Those watching them would be struggling to work out what was going on and wouldn’t be able to coordinate any response quickly. Eleanor was certain of that yet Michael hadn’t been. He’d repeatedly said that those who would hunt them would be very good and the best thing that they could do was to get as far away as possible in a short space of time and then stop and hide. She thought about that theory of his now as she kept up with him. They went along the bank of a stream, over a muddy mound and then along a well-worn track. She tried to focus her attention was on that yet her mind raced with doubt over the logic he had given about how fast a reaction could be made by the British Chekists and their military assistance.

Would they really be incapable of doing nothing for a few hours and then only later set up an easy-to-detect cordon?

“Keep up!”

Eleanor chose not to reply as Michael called back towards her. She had hardly dropped far behind and his comment was unnecessary. The rucksack on her back was heavy and it was a muggy afternoon where every breath she took seemed to make her mouth drier.

They ran on and cut across a country lane without stopping. Michael had said before they had left that there would be no traffic on that road and he was correct. He quickly led them back into some trees and the cover from observation again. Eleanor knew this area herself as it was one of the countless places where the two of them as a supposedly newly-married couple had explored together apparently for pleasure. They’d walked through here many times and gone camping not far from here. There were spots where she knew that they could hide from even the most-careful searches made.

“Another couple of miles; stay with me!”

Again, it was unnecessary. Michael shouted back to her for no reason. Maybe he was trying to keep her spirits up but she didn’t need a boost to her desire to get away… especially not from him. She ran because she wanted to get out of Britain eventually and to make it back home to her family. Of course, that wouldn’t be easy but it was doable. The war would be won by her country and the West defeated soon enough. She knew where to hide and Michael said he knew how those looking for them would operate. He hadn’t spent all his time doing his cover job for nothing after all.

Eleanor tried to put her doubts about his ability to get them out of this alive. It was hard, but she told herself that she would have too. She had to keep the faith in their ability to get away and, as much as she would have liked to, that just couldn’t be achieved by being on her own.

She carried on running, keeping up with Michael.



Whatever it took

Lt.-Colonel Pearson’s battalion intelligence officer, a well-experienced captain, had given the opposing forces in 2 WESSEX’s operational area simple designations. They were named Opposing Force #1 and Opposing Force #2; the Spetsnaz detachments were called those names for ease, no more.

#1 had been destroyed the other day when they had run into Pearson’s men near to Andover. The majority of those Soviet soldiers had been killed with a couple escaping and a few more taken as prisoners. The latter had been squeezed by specialists with the Intelligence Corps and given over some information eventually on their previous operations as well as locations where their missing comrades might have been hiding out. SAS men coming down from their holding point at Bath – where Pearson understood they hadn’t been doing much apart from waiting – had been active hitting potential hide-outs but found no sign of any runners. Where those men were, no one was sure. There were four missing yet they were judged to be no longer a serious operational threat. Force #1 had been defeated and no more.

Events in the early hours of this morning meant that #2 was no more as well. Pearson had been naturally pleased when he was made aware of the elimination of the second group of Spetsnaz and sent a short congratulatory message to Commodore from the Royal Navy down on the South Coast who was in command of security through the seaports. It was Royal Navy men from ad hoc guard forces – reservists and shore personnel – who had engaged Force #2 when the Soviets tried to strike at the Hamble aviation fuel terminal. The Spetsnaz there had been all killed or captured and while they had inflicted many casualties themselves against the Royal Navy personnel who went after them, the fuel terminal was unaffected. He was a little bit jealous of the Royal Navy for overcoming an enemy that his men had been hunting… though was still relieved that no more of his men had lost their lives this time. The Wessex Regiment had one of its battalions overseas – in Denmark – and they would be in hot water indeed yet home service for everyone left behind hadn’t been an easy duty: including Home Service Force volunteers attached to Pearson’s command, the casualties ran at twenty-eight dead, more than forty injured and (disturbingly) three still missing.

2 WESSEX no longer had an enemy to fight.

The rest of the Spetsnaz known to be active were away to the west where the new battle-group that was 3 WESSEX was hunting them down through the North Wessex Downs and Salisbury Plain. However, the security duties to keep the transportation routes secure for the wartime logistics effort was still there for Pearson and his men. The war wasn’t over and there was always the chance that somehow, in some manner, more Soviet commandos might show up. Pearson had been warned of that by his brigade commander and while he doubted that, he had kept that thought to himself.

This afternoon, there was another issue that needed his attention and it had brought him to this bunker also in Hampshire, the one at Basingstoke. There were those in authority who were planning for if the war went a different way indeed from more commandos turning up or the fighting remaining conventional as it was – as far as Pearson knew anyway – there on the Continent. At Basingstoke, they were preparing for the after-effects of nuclear warfare occurring on British soil.


Civil Defence was part of 2 WESSEX’s mission alongside Home Defence. The two tasks were similar but not the same. The latter was security against wartime enemy activity on British soil and had Pearson’s men had been fulfilling that since Transition to War started by protecting against Spetsnaz activity. The former was to prepare for the situation that would come in the aftermath of a nuclear strike occurring either near to or far from where 2 WESSEX was operating through the counties of Berkshire, Hampshire and Wiltshire. Those counties were full of viable targets for a Soviet nuclear strike. However, even if the military bases and strategic national sites weren’t directly hit and Britain was targeted in a ‘limited attack’ with nuclear weapons, for example if only London was struck, Civil Defence missions would still occur.

The country was supposed to survive after a nuclear attack. Even with millions killed and giant radioactive craters scattering the nation, plus fallout and civilian refugees streaming everywhere in dire need, Britain was meant to carry on. There would be rule of law, security and a functioning government. From Basingstoke, the town on the edges of Hampshire near to Surrey, part of that surviving part of Britain would be led from. There was a building belonging to the Civil Service Commission there and a nuclear bunker beneath that. Back in the Fifties, there had been a similar facility in Reading where Pearson’s battalion headquarters was before that had been closed and another one opened in Maidenhead. That information was partially available to the public – and thus the Soviets certainly knew it for targeting purposes – though Maidenhead’s successor, that being the Basingstoke site, was meant to be secret. Pearson knew that there was another newer bunker (to replace this one) somewhere near Crowborough in Sussex yet he had been ordered to come here.

This was where Regional Seat of Government Six was currently located.

UK Field Army Headquarters at Wilton had issued the order for his attendance through his brigade commander and there were other military officers present for the afternoon meeting with the civil servants who were here. Pearson considered the whole place a tomb. One look at the facility, deep inside, told him that anyone caught here in the middle of a nuclear war wouldn’t last a couple of days. The bunker was not somewhere he wanted to be even now, let alone if the missiles flew. There was a minister here, a man from the government who had been dispersed before many of his colleagues had been murdered by that bomb in Whitehall on the eve of the war. Pearson was introduced to the dour man who looked like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders and was someone who was avoiding direct eye-contact with everyone.

In the event of nuclear war, before he would die here in this tomb, the minister would be the effective dictator of a wide region of what was left of Britain. It would be up to him – backed by full legal authority – to do whatever it took to keep Britain functioning.

Whatever it took wasn’t hyperbole. This man would hold the lives and fates of many directly in his hands. His orders would have Pearson and others in uniform like him doing things unimaginable for the greater good, to keep many alive over the bodies of the few so that Britain could continue.

There was a short speech made by one of the minister’s aides that welcomed (!) everyone here and then there were local civil servants – those from the county authorities – who introduced themselves to the military personnel. It was all overdone and unnecessary. There was no need for this formality. Pearson didn’t believe that any of this would matter if nuclear war came as he and the vast majority of those in uniform would never get here in time (or would find a reason not to be here; such as himself) and these civilians would be in this bunker alone. Military officers like him, if they survived, would receive orders in the field in the name of the minister and it wouldn’t matter if they had met such people before when the necessary things happened.

The meeting then addressed the issue they had all been brought here for. There was more unnecessary preamble before they were all told what was going on and why they had been brought here today like they had. It was more than a meet-and-greet and further talk about measures to deal with civilians who blocked the roads and needed aid. Furthermore, it wasn’t just a gathering so everyone could get to know each other and the minister could meet his minions like Pearson.

It was something very different from than that.

Regional Seat of Government Six (like the other ten across Britain) was now fully active. After this meeting, those who needed to leave would and then the bunker would be sealed. There was an expectation that the country was soon going to be targeted by Soviet nuclear weapons in what could be either a limited or full-scale exchange. The war had taken an unexpected course across on the Continent and the situation was dire. All the warning signs were there that weapons of last resort were looking likely to be used. Everyone needed to be ready for that eventuality as the threat was really fucking serious now.

Pearson heard the words said to him and the others and took it all in. He understood what was being said. While he hadn’t been expecting this, and had prayed this moment would never come, it was hardly the most shocking news imaginable: World War Three was underway for almost a week now. Yet…

…a chill went over him and he slipped his hands in his pockets so no one could see them shaking. He knew what was meant by doing whatever it took to make sure that Britain survived after a nuclear attack. Pearson and his men – if any of them were alive when this expected, imminent attack occurred – would be out there doing just that. He wouldn’t want to, they wouldn’t want to, but there would be no other choice.

No other choice at all.



Gurkhas

From less than three kilometres away, Guards Major Tarasov listened as half of his men were caught in an enemy attack and were doomed to be wiped out. He purposely didn’t dare look over to where the British troops had surrounded and were busy killing the Spetsnaz soldiers caught in a trap. Other men of his, from up in their observation points, were able to see what was going on though Tarasov stayed where he was and listened on the radio as the last messages that came from his deputy. No response was made to those communications which were sent by the captain whose voice betrayed real fear and whose pleas for Tarasov and everyone else to come and save them were long past desperate.

Others around him might have wondered why he wouldn’t reply though none of them said anything to him. Tarasov considered letting them know that it was through broadcasts made that he believed that the British had tracked them down yet he hadn’t gotten around to making is mind up on that concession to his men yet. He didn’t fear them turning against him – they wouldn’t dare – but instead his concern was that that might deflate them even more than they already would be. It was their comrades dying down there in the shallow valley below them and if the radio was used by Tarasov, those British soldiers would be up here too.

There were at least two companies of them there who were killing Tarasov’s men. One consisted of what were believed to be older infantrymen from the British Army individual reservist system fused into a capable combat force combining experience and a lot more man-portable firepower than would usually be found in a standard rifle company. The others were ‘Gurkhas’. These were mercenary soldiers from the Indian subcontinent of short stature but certainly very capable: it was those Gurkhas who were leading the attack to finish off those men of Tarasov’s who he couldn’t help with the reservists all carrying heavy weapons backing them up.

With such numbers of the enemy, an unfavourable tactical situation (to put it mildly!) and a no-win situation, Tarasov could do nothing to stop this.


There had been sixteen Spetsnaz soldiers who had been hit by as many of two hundred of the enemy.

Those men had been encumbered carrying much of the heavy equipment for Tarasov’s group including weapons, ammunition and supplies. That gear had been within the last remaining vehicles – those marked out as belonging to the domestic police – or carried on their backs. Everyone else, including he as the detachment commander, had been moving ahead and scouting the way to the latest out-of-the-way location looking for American missiles. There had suddenly been the appearance of two armed helicopters and then wheeled armoured vehicles (six-wheeled Saracens; ugly-looking vehicles mounting a machine gun) had turned up from which soldiers had poured out. From all four sides, those down below had been hit from by their opponents in a fierce exchange of fire. The Spetsnaz had fallen backwards in an ever-decreasing circle and tried to dig-in. The British had refused to engage them close-up and were blasting them from distance with mortars, grenades and heavy machine gun fire while maintaining an effective cordon as well. That cordon faced outwards as well as inwards.

It had been due to the radio that those men had been caught that they had.

Tarasov had been growing more and more concerned for the past few days about the ability of the British using radio detection to track his men. He had been sent here with communications equipment that he was told was incapable of being tracked let alone intercepted. It was expensive and the latest technology: no one was going to get a fix on them as long as it was used properly. He had followed those instructions but then the British had showed up recently and were seemingly everywhere. Tarasov had shaken loose of them late yesterday but had been careful afterwards through last night and this morning. This afternoon, when he had split up his force to move to the new location in two columns separated for safety, his deputy had been told to use the radio sparingly and to make sure all communication security measures were followed.

One of the Range Rovers had broken down and Tarasov had been alerted to that over the radio. Somehow, using their clever technology to overcome his, the British had bene alerted to that too. They would have had to use triangulation and interception equipment to do this… and do it fast. Half an hour later, the British had turned up.


Ten minutes had passed since then.

Ten minutes of Tarasov’s men dying and him being unable to help them nor get revenge for them upon their assailants.

Including himself, there were fourteen men up above among the tree-covered hills that looked down upon where the fighting was still ongoing. They had personal weapons and also some heavy weapons yet were in no way capable of doing anything to interfere. Those helicopters were still above and they carried weapons: one of the Range Rovers had been hit by a rocket fired from one helicopter and the other had used its machine gun down upon the trapped Spetsnaz. Those vehicles had moved away to a holding point somewhere unknown. While they could be taken out by the few RPGs that Tarasov’s men had, that would only bring the attention of the helicopters. The numerous troops down below weren’t unwary and were real soldiers. They carried many weapons and were spreading out now further away from the fighting; the Gurkhas were staying where they were but the reservists had split into three rifle platoons. Tarasov’s scouts, who were observing the battle below, had reported in their movements.

This all left Tarasov impotent once again, unable to do anything let alone move far away. The fighting below where his men were being killed was something he couldn’t intervene in.

As to that fighting, Tarasov could hear and was told that it was coming to an end. There was less shooting and fewer explosions in the distance. The patch of the English countryside being blasted to hits would soon return to the calm that had been there before. On the radio, the captain was still talking into the mike. He was whispering now. Tarasov was told that the map being carried had been eaten by the detachment deputy commander – burning it apparently hadn’t been an option and the captain knew how important it was not to let the enemy have it – and he had surrounded himself with weapons ready to fight to the end when his hidden position was discovered. He would do his duty until the end.

Tarasov’s finger hovered over the radio mike key. If he pushed it, he could send a message to his second-in-command wishing him luck and telling him that the Rodina was grateful for his dedication to the cause… a meaningless statement, but all that he could do.

He didn’t though. The signal would probably be traced to where he and the surviving men were hidden. There could also be a gun to the head of the captain by those little Gurkhas making the man talk and say such things for a response to be given.

Silence was sent by Tarasov instead.

He forced his mind elsewhere. What was left of his detachment, in terms of men and equipment, now left him unable to complete his mission.

So… now what was he to do?



Rolling up

Hampshire Police’s second-in-command, Deputy Chief Constable Morgan, has an unhappy man.

He had been unaware that MI-5 were all over one of the senior officers beneath him within the county police force with Inspector Dickenson being suspected of being a foreign agent. His boss, the chief constable, hadn’t made him aware until this evening that MI-5 officers had been covertly surveilling their main suspect and others throughout Hampshire Police at home and work over the past few days. Cut out of the loop until the very last minute, until everything had gone wrong, Morgan had presumably opted not to take out his frustration at his own boss but rather those in front of him right now. It was the fault of MI-5 that there had been such a man employed within Hampshire Police and who had been undetected for so long. It was down to the Security Service that Dickenson had murdered several people and then managed to make a successful escape. Fault lay with the spooks, not him or his organisation. No one had directly blamed him but he was acting as if others saw it as his fault. Morgan’s reaction came from believing that he hadn’t been trusted with such information that Dickenson was suspected of being whom he was and he was irrationally lashing out in expectation that he would be blamed for events that occurred here in Charlton.

This was Lucy Hunt’s reading of why Morgan was acting in the manner that he was. Jack was suspicious and had instead speculated that Morgan might have something to hide. Naturally, Lucy thought that her line of thinking there was correct and the Morgan was just an arrogant and upset fool… yet she took onboard what Jack had said too. Her fellow spook could easily have been correct. The scale of the connections that Dickenson had within the network he had developed for intelligence gathering was something still not fully understood and it would make sense for him to make use of a senior man like Morgan even without that other policeman understanding until now what had happened. After all, there were several such people identified as being of assistance to what they knew Dickenson had been doing and it didn’t appear that any others had willingly agreed – at the start anyway – to be a spy for the Soviet Union ready to strike blows against Britain in wartime. She didn’t agree with Jack yet Lucy hadn’t dismissed such an idea out of hand either.

Morgan was ten feet away from her at the moment. He was over with his fellow policemen standing near the deputy chief constable’s personal car that was parked among other vehicles at the base of the cul-de-sac where Dickenson’s house lay. At the other end, the fire which had started in the neighbouring house was still burning furiously – petrol would do that – and from that the smoke and the danger of it spreading made a proper search of the missing policeman’s house impossible. Lucy had been informed that a quick check had been made inside the house from where the Dickenson’s were reported to have fled to be sure that they really had gone but no more than that had been done. Jack had spoken to one of the other neighbours who was certain that he observed both Mr. & Mrs. Dickenson running away when the fire started. That neighbour was concerned for their welfare – ‘such nice people; upstanding members of the community’ – and had worried over what had made them run and when they would return.

Jack hadn’t brought that concerned neighbour up to speed on what was really going on. He had with Morgan but no one else was being told all of the details. Lucy wondered what the outraged senior copper was saying to those policemen around him. Morgan had been ordered by his chief constable to follow instructions from MI-5 and apprehend the Dickenson’s to hand them over to Lucy and Jack. Surely, even while angry and maybe concerned for himself, he was doing that just now? She damned well hoped so!

“Jack,” she nudged him and spoke softly, “we should have ears on what he’s saying over there.”

“The Fat Controller?” Jack had been using that name for Morgan for the past hour.

“Yes.”

“Don’t worry.” He gave her a sly smile. “We’ve got someone listening among his audience.” He tapped a finger on one of his temples. “I think of everything.”

The arrogance of Jack never ceased to amaze her. He really did think he was that smart, cleverer than everybody else. She was about to ask who that was listening-in when the heavens opened. There was no preamble to the downpour that started: it just begun. The two of them went to get some shelter from the weather.

All the while, Inspector Dickenson and his wife remained on the run.


At the bottom of the cul-de-sac where the road junction was now full of parked vehicles, one of the houses there was being used by the police. The WW2 veteran who lived there had opened his home to them when asked to and was upstairs with his wife while there were policemen all over the ground floor using it as a somewhat operations centre. This was only temporary and not planned at the beginning to be the case. The veteran had been spoken to when the first reports of the incident up the road came in and he had told Hampshire Police how he was a member of the local Neighbourhood Watch. With the ongoing war, he and other locals had formed a real Neighbourhood Watch. They had a couple of legally-owned weapons and were all respectable, patriotic men. Inspector Dickenson, who was well-known here, had given them his approval and been told when there was a suspicion among the residents that someone was in the empty house next to his. Dickenson had informed the veteran that that was part of a ‘military operation’ to ‘defend the country’ that he had been made aware of and no one was to worry about that. When the house went up in flames, a badly-injured man had been pulled out of the house next to Dickenson’s and already taken to hospital. That fellow patriot, one of the good guys fighting the good fight, had been saved by several brave residents – the veteran himself was too old to take part but had cheered them on – who’d pulled him out of that house. Dickenson would certainly have approved of that too, the veteran had told everyone.

“So… the locals spotted something up and told him. He quickly turned that around as if he knew all along and it was all a secret mission.”

Jack had followed Lucy into the kitchen and away from the policemen who were also in the house – Morgan included – when she went to make a cuppa. They were just out of earshot of everyone else.

“He was a pillar of the community; of course they told him and believed what he said in response without question.” That made perfect sense to Lucy. “He is no fool.”

“Peter isn’t going to make it.” Peter Kent was the MI-5 man inside the house next to Dickenson’s.

“Damn.” Lucy wanted to say something more but was stumped for words. Events this afternoon, evening and tonight were coming thick and fast and she was running out of shock at them. Her empathy would come later, she was sure, just not now.

“They ran at midday and we’re at,” Jack looked at his watch, “ten to ten now. They’ve had ten hours on the move. I doubt that they were on foot for long and probably had a vehicle waiting for them.”

“They could have got very far indeed.” In that amount of time, Lucy knew that their prey could be halfway across the country by now.

“Roadblocks and checkpoints will hinder them and Dickenson won’t be able to bluff his way through any – he wouldn’t want to take the risk – but I reckon he has still gone far enough away from here. Out of Hampshire certainly but…”

“…but where?”

Lucy made him a cup of tea as well. Jack leaned against the kitchen side and let out an exaggerated yawn. Unable to stop herself, Lucy copied what he did. She was just as tired as he was and wanted to lay down. The kitchen floor here would do.

“They will want to be somewhere out of the way.” Jack carried on thinking aloud. “Somewhere nice and quiet where they can hide out. He’ll know how the danger for them of being caught is increased whilst being on the move so I think that they made a dash to get where they are and will stay there. They would have stayed off the main and secondary roads and instead used country lanes. Now, they won’t move.”

“What was going on with those police dogs?” Lucy had seen something odd outside before the rain had come.

“Two of them fell down dead when they went into the cars of both Mike and Eleanor. They breathed something in and dropped down. Their handlers, who were rather upset, were fine and said the dogs stopped breathing in an instant after sniffing the car seats. Some sort of scent-killer, I would think, with the emphasis on the ‘killer’ factor.”

Lucy had a sip of her tea and thought about that for a second. Whatever had been used to do that was something special and had taken a lot of forethought to come up with. To kill tracker dogs when they were used to get the scent of their quarry with something that would do immense and immediate harm said to her something else than what she had first been thinking.

“Jack, what if they didn’t go that far away?”

“You just said that they would be!”

“Forget what I said before.” Only Jack would focus on such things like that. “Why go to effort to make sure those dogs died like that before they could get a scent?”

“Ah, I see.” Jack was Jack but he wasn’t an idiot. He understood what she was on about and understood her line of reasoning without needing it to be spelt out for him.

“We need to get inside their house to confirm that. How long can that other house keep burning for? I know there are issues with fire engines, but this seems ridiculous now.”

Lucy had heard something on that note said in the living room. “They were saying back in there,” she pointed that way with her thumb aimed over her shoulder behind her where the policemen had their maps looking over the wider area, “that they were bringing in some retained firemen and an old fire engine. The regular fire brigade couldn’t be released and are staying where they are waiting for… well… you know.”

“Yes, I do.”

For a moment, neither said anything. They both didn’t want to say the words ‘Armageddon’ or ‘nukes’. That was why the fire brigade was unavailable though. They had to stay where they were away from population centres and likely military targets so as to not be caught up in an attack, therefore useful afterwards.

“When we get in the house, we’ll want a check for chemicals. We’ll see if anything else is missing too. Peter had been in there and I have his notes. Waterproof clothing, camping gear: anything like that. If that is missing when it is supposed to be there, and we know that they both went camping and doing other outdoors stuff a lot, then we’ll know they took it to hide out somewhere.”

“Yes.”

Lucy gave her approval to that. It was a good approach. Doing so would confirm her theory based upon what happened with those police dogs as to what their missing suspects were up to. If they hadn’t actually gone that far away and stayed close by, there should be signs of that. However, proving or disproving that still didn’t give them a line on where to find the missing Mike and Eleanor Dickenson, who could be near or far.

“Then what, Jack?”

“The coppers aren’t doing this search; they are just manning the roadblocks and will help coordinate information. Aaron told me that he’s going to have those S.A.S supermen from Bath come down tomorrow and standby; meanwhile, the local T.A and Home Service Force will be alerted. Wherever these two are hiding, they’ll get found eventually if they haven’t gone too far away and are hiding in the countryside.”


There was sudden confidence in Jack. He hadn’t had any of that earlier when they had first been told that Peter had been pulled from a house-fire and that those he was in close proximity watching had run away. The surveillance mission had been blown and those being watched had made a run for it. He had spoken of a disaster and never being able to eventually get his hands on the pair of undercover Soviet agents they and others had been watching ready to use to find more of their contacts. When Aaron had told them the other day not to move directly on Mike nor his wife, Jack had led Lucy to track down others. From the body of the deceased Richard Young and that lothario’s second girlfriend, they had started the process of eventually rolling up the network of contacts that there were for Mike.

The policeman’s movements and that of his wife too had been used to identity and watch over possible sources of information. The network that was in-place was being plotted out for who linked to who with the aim to follow it backwards from where they knew it ended to where it started. That start was whoever was feeding information into it about where Spetsnaz commandos active out in Wiltshire were getting information on where to look for the Americans and their Cruise. The disappearance act here with the thinking that they could have gone very far away had left him despondent.

Now that had changed though.

Lucy felt it too. She shared his sudden optimism. The Fat Controller – sorry, Deputy Chief Constable Morgan – in the other room was still an issue that was of some concern to her (Jack worried more about him that she) but the feeling came to her that they would find those they were looking for. Now that they had cut-and-run like they had, Aaron had no objection to them being nabbed and then given the full treatment of interrogation that would come afterwards. As Soviet agents using the identity of British nationals and acting against the country in wartime, when Mike and Eleanor were caught they could expect an unpleasant treatment.

Oh well. What a shame. That would be a sad story, wouldn’t it?

The information would come at the end of it all. Everyone talks in the end. The means were always different to get people to talk but eventually secrets were revealed. Those Spetsnaz had their means to do that; MI-5 would use a different approach.

That would all come in time. First, Mike & Eleanor Dickenson needed to be caught. That would start tomorrow. At the end of the hunt for them, however long that took, she and Jack would be there to hear all that was revealed.

Lucy had no expectation that anything else that the end result she foresaw would be how all of this would end.

[James G]

The Seventh Day

Hope

Last night’s rain had continued into this morning and cooled everyone off. Sergeant Zobnin hadn’t minded the downpour as it left the previously-dry air finally breathable. He and those with him took some shelter through the worst of it though moved on through more of it. There was no time to hang around and wait for it to stop because they needed to get somewhere as soon as possible. Zobnin had memorised the map as much as possible with the route he intended to take as well as a secondary route that he would use if necessary. That map had then been safety secured inside his clothing followed by him urging Ivan Mikhailovich and Nikolai Konstantinovich onwards. The former was tasked to lead the way and that murderer did the task well as if trying to make up for his past actions. The fool had no idea of the fate which Zobnin planned for him at the end of this. As to Nikolai Konstantinovich, Zobnin kept him close by him and made sure that his trusted comrade was doing well and wouldn’t fall behind. Each time Zobnin asked him, Nikolai Konstantinovich said that he was okay and would make it: the yefreytor was determined to make it to the safety promised on the other side of the motorway that lay across their path. The trio of them pushed onwards getting closer to what they hoped would be a porous barrier ahead and not an enemy waiting for them in ambush. As there were only three, not four as there had been, getting over the motorway was going to be a difficult challenge.

The Home Service Force men at the motorway junction led by Sergeant Banks were being kept busy by him once again. He rotated those on guard and also sent some out on patrol as well. Those patrols were kept local so as to not send the men very far away which would split his small force too much making them incapable of doing anything but they did cover a lot of ground. There remained no sign of anyone to engage or even a possible opponent as having been nearby. It kept everyone on their toes though, which was the point. Banks’ concern about the men getting bored and lazy hadn’t gone away. He himself was going to spend the day here at the junction as the Thames Valley Police detachment was to be rotated once again and new policemen would be arriving to replace those here. There would need to be a new relationship established with them so as to keep everyone alive. As to the volunteer soldiers he led, they were still staying here. There would be no rotation of the rifle section back to Reading where another one from the platoon would come out here and take their place. Banks thought that that should have been the case yet he hadn’t been asked for his opinion. He huffed and puffed but still got on with it. This important piece of infrastructure, this key point, was to remain guarded and the policemen protected from any possible assailant. To achieve that, the men he led needed to be ready to take on anyone who dared try to come near the motorway junction with hostile intentions despite his own long-standing fears over that. He could only hope that his preparations had paid off.

The two of them had gotten as far as Highclere Park at the top of Hampshire. Newbury inside Berkshire wasn’t that far away from where Michael had led Eleanor to but they stayed well away from that town. The site where they had erected a tent to sleep in overnight had been away from the run-down castle that was the centrepiece of this parkland as they stayed within woodland. Eleanor hadn’t managed to get much sleep despite being so tired after the great distance covered yesterday on foot. The heavy rain which had fallen upon the tent and then the noises of the outdoors wouldn’t normally have bothered her as she and Michael had been camping many times when scouting targets and locating weapons hides, but last night she had heard all of that. Eleanor remained just as concerned this morning as she had been last night about what future lay in store for her. Michael had left her alone after packing up the tent and gone off to make a radio broadcast from a hidden transmitter that had long ago been buried nearby. She was to keep watch over the location where they would remain and probably stay again tonight. The tent would be unpacked tonight and they would stay here again but they had to be ready to remove regardless. Alone with just her thoughts, with the tiredness reaching her now, Eleanor tried to reassure herself that she would eventually make it back to the Rodina to her family. In her mind, she pictured both her husband and her daughter as they waited for her to return. As before, she told herself that this war would be won soon despite the setbacks encountered here. She held onto the hope of returning to them. She just needed to wait for that like she waited for Michael to return from sending whatever message he had to send. Eleanor was standing under a tree and out of the drizzle that the rain now was: she looked up into the cloudy sky when she thought that she might have heard an aircraft.

It was another unwelcome helicopter ride for Lucy Hunt. Jack had refused to listen to her objections and forced her into the tiny little aircraft with him. There was a report from the SAS that they were right on the trail of the missing Dickenson’s and those supermen soldiers claimed that they were getting close. There had been sighting reports from last night followed up that the SAS were hoping to run down so they could nab what they were told was a pair of Soviet GRU spies. Jack wanted the two of them to be there soon afterwards and try to get the spies to talk as soon as possible. Eleanor was supposed to be whom Lucy was to focus upon and try to relate to her ‘woman-to-woman’: another day, another bout of Jack’s sexism. They were heading towards the village of Highclere. Lucy looked out of the passenger cabin window as they approached that village and wondered where they were going to land. There was parkland away to the right – was that port or starboard? – that included woodland and a lake visible but the helicopter flew towards the village and the left-hand side of that. The rain was easing off now as she was glad of that for it surely meant an easier landing than the take-off had been. They should have come by road, not gone flying about like the two of them were in the middle of some action film! Jack wanted to get here fast to where the SAS was though and he was the boss. When the Dickenson’s were caught, then she would do as he said too in talking to Eleanor and playing the game that Jack wanted. She could do it and had done it many times before, but Lucy knew that she was capable of more than just that. After all, it was her idea and not Jack’s to follow this line of tracking down their quarry with the assumption that they hadn’t gone as far when they had run as they had. Without that, these SAS supermen they were meeting with here at Highclere wouldn’t have had their opening and picked up the lead that they had. That mattered to Lucy. This was her hard work paying off. The helicopter came into land and she wondered if Jack would ever admit that. Still, there was plenty of time for that now and in the future. First though, the spies which were the Dickenson’s had to be caught. It might take all day, but they’d be caught in the end. Her previous maybe forlorn hope of that was now to her a certainty. Those already here knew what they were doing and she and Jack would join them in fulfilling their role in that. It would all be over soon.

The loss of so many men yesterday along with almost all of the equipment they had with them when ambushed had meant that Guards Major Tarasov was unable to complete his mission. He had wanted to broadcast that to the contact on the ground that he had, a man whose name nor location he didn’t know, yet couldn’t do so. Regardless, he had been sent yet another message of more map coordinates. It was almost as if what he had previously reported didn’t matter to whomever was on the other end. The locations from yesterday and today when Tarasov saw them on the map were all over the place. Where previously there had been a tightness of locations in close proximity across the western parts of Wiltshire and out in the near-wilderness, now those sites where Tarasov was told the American missiles were located were spread too far. Even with all of his men and equipment, and an enemy force half as active as it was now, in addition to the intelligence information sent being accurate whereas before it hadn’t been, Tarasov couldn’t have done what was asked when he was sent those new locations. Avoiding detection and not being fully mobile made that impossible without the current restrictions placed upon what was left of his Spetsnaz detachment. Those restrictions meant that all that that Tarasov could do now was have his men hide. There were still those Gurkhas active in the area near to where his solders were hiding and there were other soldiers nearby as well. They were yet to ‘beat-the-bushes’ looking for his men but instead remained on-watch everywhere and changing locations with no pattern to follow. Tarasov couldn’t move location. He had received the radio transmissions but sent no response to them. The enemy nearby would have their radio detection equipment that he was certain they had used to kill his men by tracking their signals. Therefore, another day was to be spent inactive and hiding. Tarasov could only hope that this war ended soon enough and there would come an opportunity with that to eventually get away from here and the death all around him. It had to end soon, it had to.

Earlier, at nine o’clock, Lt.-Colonel Pearson made it official. 2 WESSEX’s headquarters was to move from Brock Barracks in Reading, the peacetime location where Pearson had kept it located, and to a new site. 43rd Brigade down in Exeter had issued the orders that the battalion command post was to move out of such a fixed location within a semi-urban area and into the countryside. Pearson had men with his command staff who had served in the regulars who were experienced in field locations and the continuous movement of them as would be done in battlefield conditions. None of them had raised the point that that was normally done in exercises in preparation for wartime hiding of a clear enemy target on the battlefield and that Berkshire wasn’t meant to be a battlefield; Pearson was sure that several were certain to be thinking that because he was! Regardless, the orders were for movement out of Reading and into a dispersed location where there wasn’t expected to be the danger of a commando raid or enemy air activity. Instead, his commander was concerned over the loss of 2 WESSEX’s headquarters should the war come to Britain where places such as Reading were threatened, which would mean loss in a nuclear war. A chosen location on Ashampstead Common to the west of Reading was where Pearson was to have his battalion headquarters operate from. The move would take place throughout today using a fleet of vehicles to transport in several repeated journeys, not all at once, everything needed to establish a command post there. 2 WESSEX would therefore be operational out of the way of what Pearson’s superior feared was a nuclear target. That would mean that should that happen, as everyone above him was now in real fear of, the battalion could still do all of those post-strike tasks. As the country was meant to survive after a nuclear exchange, his men would be shooting looters, enforcing quarantines and protecting aid convoys with lethal force. Pearson naturally didn’t want to see a nuclear war for countless reasons, those being among them. None of those tasks were what neither he nor his men would want to do though they were all aware that they might have to. He could only hope that that nuclear war wouldn’t come. As to the movement of his headquarters, that had started just over an hour and a half ago. Pearson was still in Reading while some of his men were at the new location. He was busy checking on the progress of that when he heard the sirens wailing. One of his communications men rushed towards him with a look of absolute horror on his suddenly pale face and a message slip in his hand, but Pearson didn’t need to see the message. He knew exactly what the sirens in the distance meant.

It was 10:34 (British Summer Time; 09:34 GMT) on July 20th 1987 when the four minute warning came. The country was about to be attacked by nuclear weapons. Any foolish hope that that wasn’t going to happen disappeared in an instant… like large parts of the country were about to as well.



M.A.D

First there was just the one missile.

The ICBM climbed away from its launching silo and begun its journey to the other side of the world. A second missile was launched in response; this ICBM went from the country initially targeted towards that that had launched the first missile. Neither was even halfway through their flights, long before they even deployed their warheads, when more joined them.

Two more shot into the sky from the aggressor. Five were sent back in response.

A dozen were fired next in a move to win the game. Thirty launches came the response.

A total of forty-nine missiles were flying after the failure of two of those launches to get missiles airborne. Most were ICBMs though a few submarine-fired SLBMs joined them. The missiles were all armed with thermonuclear warheads of immense explosive force, far more than the last time nuclear weapons had been used in anger. Some missiles were carrying just the one warhead but the majority had a payload of several warheads.

The two sides were joined by others firing. Missiles were no longer fired in response to the launch from an opponent. There was no strategy to make the other side back down anymore, concede a point or make a withdrawal. It was a free-for-all. Countries wanted to get their weapons of last resort into the sky before they were destroyed on the ground.

ICBMs and SLBMs were joined by MRBMs and SRBMs. Cruise missiles were fired from land, from ships & submarines and from aircraft. Nuclear artillery shells were used on the battlefield and at sea nuclear-armed torpedoes & depth charges were deployed. Tactical strike aircraft and long-range bombers begun to get airborne to deploy gravity bombs armed with a nuclear warhead.

Use it or lose it, some called it. Mutually Assured Destruction – MAD – was another term. The whole world had gone mad indeed.


From Britain, many of those weapons armed with such warheads were launched from. RAF and USAF aircraft raced down runaways across the nation with a thermonuclear payload. A few British and American submarines in nearby waters used nuclear weapons as well in different forms. In East Anglia, Gryphon cruise missiles that had long ago departed from their RAF Molesworth base into the countryside were launched towards distant targets to the east.

The Cruise convoys from RAF Greenham Common weren’t out in Wiltshire where the Spetsnaz had been looking for them. A deception had been used, a NATO maskirovka. Launches were made from across the hills which were the Cotswolds spreading from the edges of Oxfordshire into Gloucestershire: the North Wessex Downs and Salisbury Plain where all of those people had lost their lives were some distance away.

There was a lot of haste in getting the missiles away from their launchers as the crews weren’t aware of the deception used to hide them. They expected that any moment a nuclear strike would fall upon them. The American missile crews were watched over by USAF security troops, and a very few RAF personnel acting as liaisons, who wondered just like those who fired them were the BGM-109G missiles were going. Such idle thoughts on the destinations for those missiles wouldn’t matter in the end though.

Ninety-three of the ninety-six assigned missiles that had hidden so long with such an accomplishment made successful launches.


Listed in alphabetical order, not in the order of who fired first and against who, are the countries which opened fire with nuclear weapons belonging to themselves or another: the latter being NATO nuclear-sharing.

Belgium.

China.

France.

Greece.

India.

Israel.

Italy.

Netherlands.

Pakistan.

South Africa.

The Soviet Union.

Turkey.

The United Kingdom.

The United States.

West Germany.

Fifteen countries used nuclear weapons. Six of those European nations used American weapons made available to them. Pakistan conducted its first live test when they deployed theirs; South Africa did the same. Israel ended the deliberate ambiguity over whether it had such weapons or not.

Many weapons misfired during launch, deployment or the explosive phase. There were a very few cases of sabotage; either self-sabotage or by an external opponent. Many nuclear weapons were destroyed when on the way to their target during launch, flight or even in the terminal phase. Other weapons ended up off-target. Accuracy was important with nuclear weapons despite the large size of the blasts when it came to destroying a hardened or small target. Yet… at the same time, missing a target with a direct hit didn’t always matter as there were different ways of killing what was targeted rather than direct obliteration in nuclear fire. In addition, with multiple targeting by different platforms, one miss would only mean a cleaner strike for the next incoming weapon.


The three counties in the South of England where there had been hostile Spetsnaz activity and a determined effort to locate those men were full of military sites. They were thus targeted by Soviet nuclear weapons. It should be remembered that the rest of the country was as well. Effects of other blasts from nuclear explosions would come to Berkshire, Hampshire and Wiltshire afterwards. In the meantime, the region was bathed in nuclear fire first.

The explosions came over a period of several hours. Different weapons were used here. It took some time to do the damage that was done yet the end result was just the same as if they all had occurred at once by the same launch system.

In Berkshire, which lay in the Thames Valley west of London, there were eleven thermonuclear explosions in eight locations. RAF Greenham Common (empty of Cruise) was hit by two warheads which came from separate ICBMs with successful explosions occuring. The equally-empty RAF Welford was struck twice as well by more warheads from another pair of ICBM that eliminated the munitions storage site that had been drained of almost everything there already. The nuclear weapons establishments at Aldermaston and Burghfield Common were hit by three warheads between them as ICBM-delivered warheads arrived. These were ground-bursts rather than airbursts at the preceding targets: one word, fallout. To the west of these locations, another warhead from an ICBM detonated above Inkpen Common, open ground in the countryside near Hungerford. The warhead had been aimed at Greenham Common but was off-target.

Some time later in the morning, when countries were blasting each other to bits just for the sake of it, IRBMs delivered three warheads to a trio of other places in Berkshire. These were not true military targets. Counter-force had been replaced by what was counter-value. MAD by that point was in full-swing. The large town of Reading was first. Then the prestigious military academy at Sandhurst (though the warhead exploded over the town, not the school) was struck at. Finally, Windsor Castle took a direct hit: that symbol of Britain was obliterated along with the nearby area.

Seven places were the scene of nine thermonuclear blasts within Hampshire. The coastal county which stretched inland was drenched in military fire too yet there were large areas left alone. Four blasts from warheads fired by ICBMs occurred over Portsmouth and Gosport. The Royal Navy presence around them was what was had been targeted. One warhead explosion only resulted in a blast less than ten per cent of its designed strength during a misfire. Regardless, enough energy and destructive power had already been unleashed here beside the English Channel.

Further strikes across Hampshire came later. IRBMs and a cruise missile fired by a submarine near the coast of Ireland were responsible for these. Farnborough Airport was destroyed and so too was helicopter base at RAF Odiham. The Royal Navy airfield that was RNAS Lee-on-Solent was obliterated yet the satellite-communications station that was RAF Oakhanger survived unscathed when the warhead thrown against it blew up in the skies far away… above the little town of Petersfield. The civilian losses there were nothing compared to what occurred when the city of Southampton was blasted apart by the nuclear warhead that exploded above the harbour area yet still flattened most of the rest of the city too.

Wiltshire came off the worst of the three counties. Nuclear weapons were used for digging in places and that meant ground-bursts with immense firepower undertaken. Fifteen nuclear blasts occurred at fourteen locations in total; another two warheads failed to explode and one was quite far off-target. The ‘digging’ was done at Chilmark and Corsham, into the underground sites within the quarries there. The RAF Chilmark munitions dump was almost empty but destroyed in a fantastic explosion; the Regional Seat of Government bunker at Chilmark was in use as part of the British national leadership dispersion and this was too eliminated in another immense blast. RAF Rudloe Manor at Corsham was the entrance site for the government bunkers below in Spring Quarry: it took a direct hit like the quarries at Copenacre did that was used for naval munitions storage. Hudswell Quarry was home to the Corsham Computer Centre and coordinated Royal Navy activities: this bunker took a direct hit but it’s survival was a giant middle finger to those who failed to kill it. The Corsham-end of the Box Tunnel, which was believed by those who targeted it to hold items of national financial and cultural value, was meant to be blown apart but a failure occurred and the warhead in question smashed into the ground without going BANG.

Smaller airbursts occurred across Wiltshire from IRBMs. The airfield at RAF Lyneham was hit by two blasts and Wroughton airfield was struck by another one; the explosion at the latter flattened the nearby military hospital. RAF Hullavington had an airfield that was targeted with a lone blast despite it not being used much during the war. The village of Wylye was hit by the explosion that was meant to destroy the airfield at Boscombe Down in a major miss. However, when the chemical weapons research facility at Porton Down was blown to smithereens, Boscombe Down was destroyed regardless. Four British Army bases were targeted as well, with only three directly hit. Bulford Camp, Warminster and Wilton each saw nuclear detonations occur above them. Tidworth Camp was damaged by an explosion above the Salisbury Plain but that was rather minimal.

No later strikes came that hit major civilian sites across Wiltshire. Salisbury and Swindon hadn’t been targeted for destruction like Reading and Southampton were. However, both population centres were very close to nearby military sites were nuclear weapons had exploded above those. In addition, as with elsewhere in Wiltshire, the South of England and the country as a whole too, the ground-bursts first at the nuclear weapons sites in Berkshire as well as the digging into the quarries around Chilmark & Corsham meant a coming death for all soon enough. The fallout was going to be of an unimaginable scale from such blasts as those.

For civilian survivors everywhere, maybe dying in the initial strikes in an instant would have been better than what was to come. They didn’t call it MAD for nothing.


Sergeant Zobnin didn’t stand a chance. He was near to the motorway and his revenge against Ivan Mikhailovich. The sirens in the distance were heard and understood for what they were. However, so very quickly afterwards, the nuclear detonations occurred. Less than half a dozen miles behind him, the murderer and Nikolai Konstantinovich lay Greenham Common as well as Aldermaston and Burghfield Common too. Two airbursts and three ground-bursts of thermonuclear warheads in the multi-hundred kiloton range killed the three of them. They hadn’t had the time to get into any cover. Zobnin felt pain for just a second but then there was nothing more.

Nearby, Sergeant Banks and his men were killed when Welford was blown up. They survived those blasts that had killed the Spetsnaz on the run approaching them by getting into cover and also the distance, but then Welford was hit like it was and Welford was closer than Greenham Common. Banks, his men and the policemen were too close to the pair of detonations in the sky above that munitions depot. It was the flash radiation which killed them, not the blast wave from the twin detonations. Banks’ final hours were not pleasant.

The fire-storm that raced across Highclere Park killed Eleanor aka Ekaterina. Multiple nuclear detonations at Greenham Common and the Inkpen Common were fast to ignite the woodland that had recently got a little bit wet yet was still highly-flammable. At this time of year, the countryside was dense in vegetation and perfect for a firestorm. The winds from the blasts nearby and then others later spread the fire far and very fast. She tried to run away. Yet she was suddenly violently ill and incapable. The smoke got her before the flames did and that fire-storm moved on without regard for this one of many lives it would take.

Lucy Hunt was flash-blinded by the nuclear detonations at Aldermaston and Burghfield Common. The pain was unlike anything imaginable. She heard those trying to help her when they tried to give her words of comfort. Especially Jack, he was ever so kind and told her it would be okay. She would be with her family again soon. Painkillers given to her made her mind fuzzy though when she was told by Jack after a while that when the blasts had occurred and Michael Dickenson who was being held by the SAS after they captured him had run in the chaos of the nuclear attack she understood. Those soldiers had then shot him down. That made her smile. But then that fire-storm came and she was overcome by the smoke. Jack – her enemy and her friend – held her hand when the end came for them both and kept saying it would all be okay.

The reaction of the Gurkhas trying to kill him alerted Guards Major Tarasov of what was coming. They sought immediate cover in a panicked fashion. Sirens were heard wailing in the distance only afterwards and when Tarasov had his men get down as low as possible too. Then there were the flashes in the distance. Those were followed by the shock-waves. To the north, the south, the east and the west there were almighty explosions. His own country’s weapons blew apart this country. He survived the nuclear detonations at first. However, the warhead off-course that crashed into the Inkpen Common killed him in an instant. It was there that he and his men were hiding. Tarasov had no idea of what happened. His world just ended as everything went black. A 550-kiloton warhead from a Soviet ICBM went off a few miles above his head: off-target indeed.

As to Lt.-Colonel Pearson, he and most of his battalion command staff lived through the first blasts that occurred in the distance despite those being ground bursts. When the nuclear warfare establishments south of Reading were wiped off the face of the earth, the shock-waves hit the town not long afterwards. Brock Barracks took major damage but was still standing. There was a lot of work to be done in trying to get everyone into protective gear and then out of the base. Some men wanted to try to help those civilians who were going to be badly injured across Reading but he wouldn’t let them. His orders were to reach the dispersal site for 2 WESSEX’s command post and then try to establish contact with what was left of his battalion plus the Regional Seat of Government at Basingstoke. Trouble with communications was encountered but Pearson pushed onwards. He had his duty to do. He was doing that when a cruise missile fired by a Soviet Bear bomber, from out over the North Atlantic, exploded above Reading later in the morning, near to midday. In an instant, Reading was gone and Pearson’s life ended without him having any idea as to what caused his sudden death in a nuclear fireball.


These six people, soldiers and spies, were killed like tens, no, hundreds of millions were. London, New York, Moscow, Paris, Berlin, Beijing, Tokyo, Delhi and so on were all lost in nuclear fire along with parts of the countries they were in around them and neighbouring nations.

In the day of hell (or night; it depended upon where people were at the time of the nuclear war), no one could hide. Being a chameleon and blending in to the background wouldn’t work in the face of nuclear warfare, even if you were sneaky Spetsnaz or a helpless civilian.

Such was MAD. It was the end for so many at once and almost everyone soon enough.


THE END

[lordroel]

Feb 9, 2018 21:17:01 GMT James G said:

A completed story of mine written in 2017. Enjoy.

That i will.