Post by forcon on Jun 9, 2019 19:39:27 GMT
Chapter One
Moscow’s weather was already making the transition from bright and inviting to unkind and ruth-less as August turned to September. The constant drizzle, never quite amounting to a downpour, did little to deter the lines of protestors, General Nikolaev noted. Under the watchful eye of the Militsiya, throngs of dissenters chanted in unison. Nikolaev, Chief of the General Staff of the Rus-sian Armed Forces, couldn’t hear their words through the armour-plated windows of his vehicle, but the sentiment was clear enough. He kept a watchful eye on the briefcase next to him as the black Mercedes slowed and edged its way through the protestors, held back by heavily-armed po-licemen. The tension that hung thick in the air across Russia’s capital made Nikolaev wish he still regularly wore a sidearm at his waist. Once clear of the protestors, who were kept back a few hun-dred yards from the gates of the Kremlin, Nikolaev’s driver turned a corner and entered the im-posing building’s underground parking lot. The Chief of the General Staff left his driver, an armed member of the Federal Security Service, in the vehicle and entered the Kremlin’s plush interior. Though he had visited the place a hundred times in the execution of his duties, Nikolaev never failed to be impressed by its stunningly-designed interior. With chandeliers dangling from the ceil-ing and architecture that reflected the wishes of the Czars, it was a stark contrast to the conditions faced by most Russian city-dwellers.
“The President will see you now, General Nikolaev,” a suited aid announced as the General en-tered the complex, almost before he had even had a chance to take in his surroundings. He shrugged off his greatcoat and took in the warmth offered by the new environment.
Nikolaev answered, “Very well,” and followed the aid to the office of his superior. Sirens could be heard blaring, intermingling with the chants of the protestors, so faint that they could have been from another world. The aid halted in his tracks outside the President’s office, knocking on the door three times, politely, but firmly.
“Anton, it is good to see you.” President Orlov stepped forwards and greeted Nikolaev in the Rus-sian way, with an almost crushing bear hug. The two were more than just politician and soldier. The memories of the year they had spent in Afghanistan, serving with the same motorised rifle regi-ment, would never cease to haunt either man.
“And you, sir. I wish the circumstances were different.” President Orlov’s eyes nearly rolled out of his head at the formality.
“Nobody else is around, Anton Stepanovich. You can use my name.” Orlov and Nikolaev had de-veloped a close friendship during their time serving together, but for an officer of the Old Guard such as Nikolaev, formalities were everything. A break in tradition wasn’t something that the Gen-eral could accept lightly. The President went to a wooden cabinet, sitting below a picture of Mar-shal Zhukov, the man who had led Russia’s armed forces to victory against Hitler, and retrieved a bottle of vodka and two small glasses. “Drink?”
“I don’t think so, sir – Ivan, I mean. I am on duty, after all.”
“That never stopped us in the desert.”
Nikolaev gave the idea a momentary pause, before grinning. “Who am I to defy the orders of the President himself?” President Orlov poured two glasses of vodka, before putting the bottle back in its place, and inviting the head of the armed forces to sit down opposite him.
“So, Anton, do you know why I ordered you to attend this meeting without the presence of any others?” It had struck Nikolaev as odd, to be ordered to meet the President of the Russian Federa-tion alone. Despite their friendship, Orlov and Nikolaev’s paths rarely crossed without a multitude of generals and ministers also being there.
“Would it be anything to do with the current unrest?”
“I’m afraid so, Anton. You understand that this meeting is taking place in the strictest confidence?”
Nikolaev had expected that. Meetings between presidents and their advisors were rarely made public, especially at times like these. “Indeed.” President Orlov sighed deeply and retrieved a fold-er from his desk, marked ‘Secret’ with a red stamp.
“Last night, I was briefed on the current situation by the heads of the Interior Ministry and the Federal Security Service.” General Nikolaev leaned forwards in his chair. “It’s worse than we thought, Anton. The arrests made last week only drew out more support for these hooligans. By economic advisors have told me that in combination with the continued decline in oil prices, we could be facing the Venezuela Scenario as early as next year.” The ‘Venezuela Scenario’ was a term coined by Nikolaev’s predecessor, describing a situation in which the Russian government faced the prospect of a full-scale ‘colour revolution’ like the one that had seen the fall of the previous government in Caracas some years ago.
“My God, Ivan, that bad already?” The General shook his head and reached for the vodka glass, taking a healthy swig. “It has to be the latest round of trade sanctions imposed on us that worsened the situation.”
“As it happens, I agree with you.” The President likewise took a drink. “I don’t, however, believe that the West has the resolve to keep those sanctions in place when faced with…action from us.”
Nikolaev felt his blood run cold. He realised now why he had been called here alone. President Or-lov wouldn’t want any others to witness a negative reaction by the Chief of the General Staff. Such a thing would gravely threaten Orlov’s credibility. In Russia, threatened credibility could lead to threatened life. “What exactly do you suggest, Ivan?”
“There is no way to say this other than bluntly. My advisors in the intelligence community have suggested that the current state of affairs cannot be sustained for more than few months before we begin to suffer major shortages. The idea that has been suggested to me, and believe me, An-ton, it is not one I take lightly, is that some form of military action against NATO could be used to persuade the United States, and much of Europe, to back off of their sanctions.”
Even though he had figured out what was coming, what the President had told him still came as a colossal shock to Nikolaev.
“You understand, Ivan, that this precipitate the Third World War?”
Orlov nodded solemnly and finished off his vodka glass. “If we do nothing, Anton, we will be lynched in the streets like that madman in Caracas!” Orlov calmed after his momentary outburst. “You do, if I remember correctly, have plans for a scenario similar to this one?”
“Indeed. The General Operation Plan calls for a drive all the way to the Oder, but we have much scaled down variants of that operation. Sir, I must ask, however, are you aware of the balance of military power in Europe at this time?” It was Nikolaev’s job to read the reports that came from the Main Intelligence Directorate regarding NATO’s military readiness posture. “If they wanted, the Europeans alone could field a force three times the size of our entire army.”
“That is my point, Anton. The Europeans don’t want to do that. If, for example, we were to occupy the Baltic States, do you really think the Germans or the Spanish would want to send their boys to die by the thousands to recapture them?”
Nikolaev mulled over Orlov’s point for a moment. The President was right, he decided. The sheer size of NATO was enough to make any opponent to the Alliance shrink back in terror. “The military capability of the North Atlantic Alliance,” he began, “has never been in question. If we were to seize any area of NATO territory, they could drive us back to our own borders. Our own forces, however, would make that venture horrendously bloody.”
“Exactly. What is it that American Senator said last week?” Orlov interjected. “That Poland wasn’t worth the life of ‘one Iowa farm boy?’”
“The Americans will fight, at least at first. So will the Baltics, but we will crush them like a bug. The Poles are likely to resist. If the Americans fight, so will the British and possibly the French too. But the Germans, the Italians, the Spanish, the Greeks, the Turks…”
“The Foreign Intelligence Service seems to agree with you, Anton. If we were to rapidly occupy Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania, we could fortify that territory and make it clear that any attempt by NATO to regain it would be met with fierce resistance from our own forces, up to and including the use of tactical nuclear weapons.” Orlov gave a dramatic, almost thespian pause, as though he were standing on a podium. “At that point, we would be in a position to dictate terms to the West that would guarantee our national survival, while simultaneously bringing thousands of Russian peo-ple’s and the ports along the Baltic coastline back under our control.”
The diplomat introduced himself with a clipped, polished accent. “Pleasure to make your acquaint-ance, General Kelland.” General Matthew Kelland Junior had barely stepped off of the plane after its arrival in Belgium before he was bombarded with greetings and salutes from civilian appointees and military staff officers alike. The long drive from the rain-dampened airfield to his quarters out-side Brussels had seen General Kelland introduced to his Belgian adjutant, who in turn had given the new Supreme Allied Commander Europe his itinerary for the day. After briefly visiting his quar-ters, Kelland had been driven to NATO’s civilian headquarters in Brussels to meet with the Alli-ance’s civilian chief, Sir Alexander Longmire.
“Likewise, sir.” An awkward silence followed momentarily, before the British civil servant contin-ued the conversation.
“Tell me about your military experience, General. I’ve heard a lot about you as a soldier, but I want to hear it from the horse’s mouth.” Kelland almost shrugged. He couldn’t sum up over twenty years of service in the United States Army in a few sentences.
“Well, sir, I graduated West Point back in ’97. I was a company commander in a mechanized infan-try unit when we went into Iraq back in ’03.”
“Ah, yes, I read about that. Your unit took the Republican Guard apart.”
“Yes, sir, I was in the Third Mech.” Almost two decades had passed since Kelland had first led men into combat; his company had been responsible leading the bold, daring attack into the now-infamous Karbala Gap, destroying over thirty Republican Guard tanks over the course of a twenty-minute engagement. A young captain in his late twenties at the time, Kelland had been an old man by the standards of the eighteen and nineteen-year olds under his command. “After that I did a couple of tours with the Pentagon, went to Staff College in Kansas, and then got command of an armored cavalry regiment.” As though he were a child listening to a grandparents’ war story, the Longmire nodded excitedly. “Then they put me on the Joint Staff at the Pentagon and bumped me up to brigadier-general. After that I got command of the First Cavalry Division, then the Eighteenth Airborne Corps.” For the briefest of moments, Kelland allowed his hand to reach up to his face and run over the deep scar in his forehead, a blemish earned in Iraq when shrapnel from a rocket-propelled grenade had buried itself there.
“I can see why you were appointed as our new SACEUR,” said Longmire. “You are an experienced officer as any. General Rowley was a good man and an outstanding general. I hope you can keep up the pace with him.” To Kelland, it almost sounded like a threat. The Englishman’s jovial tone could easily have been mistaken as one of sardonicism or irony, but Kelland, who had worked with the British Army countless times before, new it to be nothing of the sort. Technically, as NATO’s Secretary-General, Longmire was an equal of Kelland. Longmire held leadership of the civilian side of the Alliance, while Kelland was in charge of the military side of things. In practice, the newly-appointed SACEUR would always find himself looking at civilian figures such as Longmire as holding seniority. “I take it you are up to speed on our new eastwards focus, General?”
Kelland nodded to the affirmative. “I am, sir. We’re shifting the focus away from counterterrorism and back in Moscow’s direction.”
“Putin got one over on us in Ukraine,” Longmire admitted. “We didn’t expect Russia to act with such efficiency. And likewise, we didn’t expect Russian forces to perform as well as they did in Syr-ia. They left us ‘playing catch-up’ as you Americans like to say.”
Reluctantly, Kelland had to agree with his civilian counterpart. The Kremlin’s previous resident had stunned the Western world with two successful military interventions in Europe and the Middle East, as well as with various political and espionage accomplishments around the world. It had tak-en the West too long to realise that Russia was once again playing the dangerous game of great powers. “Orlov only continued what his predecessor started,” the American replied. “Losing Vene-zuela as an ally hurt him badly. And the current unrest in Russia is something that I must admit I find troubling.”
“You think Orlov fears suffering the same fate?” Asked the Brit. A former ambassador and cabinet minister with a distinguished diplomatic career, Longmire was respected in his field, but he wasn’t known for literacy in military matters.
“I think it’s certainly possible, sir. If Moscow believes Western sanctions are being imposed with the result of causing Orlov’s downfall, that’s where my key cause for concern lies.”
“Your predecessor thought much the same thing, Matthew – May I call you Matthew? – and I tend to follow that same train of thought.” Kelland nodded a response to Longmire’s question. “I do worry that if the Russians decide they’re facing a repeat of what happened in Libya or Venezuela then they might decide to use all those tanks sitting on their borders.”
“Well, sir, that’s what our recent exercise was held for, to deter Russia from doing anything like that. I’m sure Moscow got the message.” Kelland wasn’t as sure as he made out.
***
Her orders had come through an encrypted messaging app on her laptop. Katelin Simmons, known in her home country as Katarina Sobriev, was nervous as she left her London flat. Clambering into the drivers’ seat of her Nissan, she took paused for a moment to catch her breath before igniting the engine and heading towards Heathrow Airport.
The journey to the airport was tense, if uneventful. In the waiting area, she mentally rehearsed her actions. A man whom she had never before laid eyes on before was entering the United King-dom. She had been forwarded a picture of him, and told that for the purpose of today, he was a friend from university who would be staying with her for the next several weeks, visiting London from his home country of Ukraine. Two policemen, armed with submachine guns, patrolled past her parked vehicle, nearly causing Sobriev to vomit with anticipation, before she finally caught sight of her new roommate.
“Miroslav!” She called out jubilantly, catching the attention of the bearded, stout individual. “Over here!” Her fellow spy – she had not actually been told that was the case, but it was obvious enough – looked towards Sobriev and dashed over.
“Hello, Katie!” He greeted, with a thick eastern accent. “It’s been too long! How have you been?”
“I’ve been good, thanks. How was it back home? We haven’t seen each other in forever!” To out-siders, the meeting of two Russian intelligence officers appeared to be nothing more than two old friends reuniting after spending years apart. They hugged, laughed and giggled about in-jokes be-tween two close companions. For two people who had never before met one another, the show they managed to put on was an impressive deception, worthy of an Oscar.
Unfortunately for Sobriev and ‘Miroslav’ – that was certainly not his real name – not everybody watching the meeting was a clueless passer-by. Officers from Britain’s Security Service, known more popularly as MI5, had been carrying out surveillance on the suspected SVR officer who used the pseudonym ‘Katelin Simmons’, for the past four days.
“Who do you think our new friend is?” Asked one of the surveillance officers, a man who wished more than anything that his current situation would change so he could spark up another Marl-boro. “He’s no foreign exchange student, that’s for sure,” replied the second officer, sitting behind the wheel of the blue BMW.
“I have consulted with the General Staff, and with the commanders of the Western Military Dis-trict and the Northern Fleet, sir,” informed General Anton Nikolaev. “A plan of action has been formulated from our General Operational Plan.”
President Orlov was impressed at the speed with which Nikolaev had come back to him. It had barely been a week since the last meeting between the two men, and already the Chief of the General Staff had a plan to propose. “Go ahead, Anton. Run me through this plan of yours.”
The two men were sat alone, surrounded by the grey walls of the Kremlin’s deep underground command centre. An electronic map was active on a screen bolted to the wall at the far end of the briefing room. To Nikolaev, it seemed awfully lonely, with the rest of Russia’s Defence Council missing from this current consultation.
“What we have devised here, is Operation Scalpel. In essence, the plan allows for a large-scale ar-moured, mechanised, and airborne assault into the three Baltic Republics of Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania, along with the seizure of strategic islands in the Baltic Sea and off of the coast of Norway. The objective of Operation Scalpel would not be to fight the entirety of the NATO alliance on even terms. Rather, we would occupy large portions of Alliance territory with extreme speed, and then make the cost in lives, equipment, and money too high for NATO to consider recovering their lost territory. This will leave us in a position to dictate terms to the West in order so reverse our own economic issues and prevent a potential uprising, supported by NATO, against Russia’s legitimate government.” Nikolaev glanced at his papers. “I should add, we have already begun efforts to move our commando units into place to strike various targets throughout Europe.”
Orlov flicked through the folder in front of him. Charts showed troop dispositions and maps point-ed westwards, showing lines of advance of Russian ground forces units. More graphs indicated predicted casualties, while indicators of various sizes told the reader of the positions of Russian ground, air, naval, and missile units from Murmansk all the way down to Belarus and the southern border with Ukraine. “I am impressed,” was all he said at first. “I see the plan involves seizing Swe-dish territory. They are a neutral. Is this a good idea?”
“I questioned that myself, Ivan,” the General admitted. “The GRU believes that even in seizing Gotland, we can keep Sweden out of the war with the threat of attacks against their national infra-structure. I concur with that assessment; the Swedes are not exactly a militaristic people.”
President Orlov gazed at the papers in front of him, giving the appearance of a man whose shoul-ders carried the weight of the world. His eyes were heavy and tired, and it would have taken a sea-soned soldier to tell where the creases in his suit had once been. “I am prepared to authorise Op-eration Scalpel, should our current domestic situation continue on its current path. What are our chances of success?”
“The General Staff feels that we have a sixty percent change of success, given the proper mobilisa-tion period, and time to secure diplomatic support and pledges of certain NATO members to avoid conflict. I will not pretend that this is not an immensely risky direction to go down. It could end with the entirety of NATO allied against us, or worse, with nuclear fire destroying all then we have worked for.”
“I understand the risks, Anton, I truly do.” The Chief of the General Staff wondered if his superior was correct in that assertion. “But if we do not act, if we cannot gain concessions from the West, then the people of this country will throw us out of the walls of this building. They are growing tired of food shortages. You saw the mob outside the last time you were here. How long do you think it will be before their numbers are doubled, even tripled?”
Nikolaev nodded. “What does the FSB say about this? The Interior Ministry?”
“They feel the same way. We’ve seen this happen a dozen times before, Anton. Libya, Venezuela, Uzbekistan, even Romania back in 1990. Not here. I will not be the man who presides over the death of the Russian State.”
“If that is your view, sir, then I await your orders to begin preparations to implement Operation Scalpel.”
“How long will you need to make your preparations?”
“From the moment you order a mobilisation, we can be ready in twenty-one days. I would like more time, but all of our war plans can be carried out with minimal warning.”
“Very well, Anton Stepanovich.” The President closed his folder. “In that case, I will confer with the Defence Council first thing tomorrow to formally authorise Operation Scalpel.”
Moscow’s weather was already making the transition from bright and inviting to unkind and ruth-less as August turned to September. The constant drizzle, never quite amounting to a downpour, did little to deter the lines of protestors, General Nikolaev noted. Under the watchful eye of the Militsiya, throngs of dissenters chanted in unison. Nikolaev, Chief of the General Staff of the Rus-sian Armed Forces, couldn’t hear their words through the armour-plated windows of his vehicle, but the sentiment was clear enough. He kept a watchful eye on the briefcase next to him as the black Mercedes slowed and edged its way through the protestors, held back by heavily-armed po-licemen. The tension that hung thick in the air across Russia’s capital made Nikolaev wish he still regularly wore a sidearm at his waist. Once clear of the protestors, who were kept back a few hun-dred yards from the gates of the Kremlin, Nikolaev’s driver turned a corner and entered the im-posing building’s underground parking lot. The Chief of the General Staff left his driver, an armed member of the Federal Security Service, in the vehicle and entered the Kremlin’s plush interior. Though he had visited the place a hundred times in the execution of his duties, Nikolaev never failed to be impressed by its stunningly-designed interior. With chandeliers dangling from the ceil-ing and architecture that reflected the wishes of the Czars, it was a stark contrast to the conditions faced by most Russian city-dwellers.
“The President will see you now, General Nikolaev,” a suited aid announced as the General en-tered the complex, almost before he had even had a chance to take in his surroundings. He shrugged off his greatcoat and took in the warmth offered by the new environment.
Nikolaev answered, “Very well,” and followed the aid to the office of his superior. Sirens could be heard blaring, intermingling with the chants of the protestors, so faint that they could have been from another world. The aid halted in his tracks outside the President’s office, knocking on the door three times, politely, but firmly.
“Anton, it is good to see you.” President Orlov stepped forwards and greeted Nikolaev in the Rus-sian way, with an almost crushing bear hug. The two were more than just politician and soldier. The memories of the year they had spent in Afghanistan, serving with the same motorised rifle regi-ment, would never cease to haunt either man.
“And you, sir. I wish the circumstances were different.” President Orlov’s eyes nearly rolled out of his head at the formality.
“Nobody else is around, Anton Stepanovich. You can use my name.” Orlov and Nikolaev had de-veloped a close friendship during their time serving together, but for an officer of the Old Guard such as Nikolaev, formalities were everything. A break in tradition wasn’t something that the Gen-eral could accept lightly. The President went to a wooden cabinet, sitting below a picture of Mar-shal Zhukov, the man who had led Russia’s armed forces to victory against Hitler, and retrieved a bottle of vodka and two small glasses. “Drink?”
“I don’t think so, sir – Ivan, I mean. I am on duty, after all.”
“That never stopped us in the desert.”
Nikolaev gave the idea a momentary pause, before grinning. “Who am I to defy the orders of the President himself?” President Orlov poured two glasses of vodka, before putting the bottle back in its place, and inviting the head of the armed forces to sit down opposite him.
“So, Anton, do you know why I ordered you to attend this meeting without the presence of any others?” It had struck Nikolaev as odd, to be ordered to meet the President of the Russian Federa-tion alone. Despite their friendship, Orlov and Nikolaev’s paths rarely crossed without a multitude of generals and ministers also being there.
“Would it be anything to do with the current unrest?”
“I’m afraid so, Anton. You understand that this meeting is taking place in the strictest confidence?”
Nikolaev had expected that. Meetings between presidents and their advisors were rarely made public, especially at times like these. “Indeed.” President Orlov sighed deeply and retrieved a fold-er from his desk, marked ‘Secret’ with a red stamp.
“Last night, I was briefed on the current situation by the heads of the Interior Ministry and the Federal Security Service.” General Nikolaev leaned forwards in his chair. “It’s worse than we thought, Anton. The arrests made last week only drew out more support for these hooligans. By economic advisors have told me that in combination with the continued decline in oil prices, we could be facing the Venezuela Scenario as early as next year.” The ‘Venezuela Scenario’ was a term coined by Nikolaev’s predecessor, describing a situation in which the Russian government faced the prospect of a full-scale ‘colour revolution’ like the one that had seen the fall of the previous government in Caracas some years ago.
“My God, Ivan, that bad already?” The General shook his head and reached for the vodka glass, taking a healthy swig. “It has to be the latest round of trade sanctions imposed on us that worsened the situation.”
“As it happens, I agree with you.” The President likewise took a drink. “I don’t, however, believe that the West has the resolve to keep those sanctions in place when faced with…action from us.”
Nikolaev felt his blood run cold. He realised now why he had been called here alone. President Or-lov wouldn’t want any others to witness a negative reaction by the Chief of the General Staff. Such a thing would gravely threaten Orlov’s credibility. In Russia, threatened credibility could lead to threatened life. “What exactly do you suggest, Ivan?”
“There is no way to say this other than bluntly. My advisors in the intelligence community have suggested that the current state of affairs cannot be sustained for more than few months before we begin to suffer major shortages. The idea that has been suggested to me, and believe me, An-ton, it is not one I take lightly, is that some form of military action against NATO could be used to persuade the United States, and much of Europe, to back off of their sanctions.”
Even though he had figured out what was coming, what the President had told him still came as a colossal shock to Nikolaev.
“You understand, Ivan, that this precipitate the Third World War?”
Orlov nodded solemnly and finished off his vodka glass. “If we do nothing, Anton, we will be lynched in the streets like that madman in Caracas!” Orlov calmed after his momentary outburst. “You do, if I remember correctly, have plans for a scenario similar to this one?”
“Indeed. The General Operation Plan calls for a drive all the way to the Oder, but we have much scaled down variants of that operation. Sir, I must ask, however, are you aware of the balance of military power in Europe at this time?” It was Nikolaev’s job to read the reports that came from the Main Intelligence Directorate regarding NATO’s military readiness posture. “If they wanted, the Europeans alone could field a force three times the size of our entire army.”
“That is my point, Anton. The Europeans don’t want to do that. If, for example, we were to occupy the Baltic States, do you really think the Germans or the Spanish would want to send their boys to die by the thousands to recapture them?”
Nikolaev mulled over Orlov’s point for a moment. The President was right, he decided. The sheer size of NATO was enough to make any opponent to the Alliance shrink back in terror. “The military capability of the North Atlantic Alliance,” he began, “has never been in question. If we were to seize any area of NATO territory, they could drive us back to our own borders. Our own forces, however, would make that venture horrendously bloody.”
“Exactly. What is it that American Senator said last week?” Orlov interjected. “That Poland wasn’t worth the life of ‘one Iowa farm boy?’”
“The Americans will fight, at least at first. So will the Baltics, but we will crush them like a bug. The Poles are likely to resist. If the Americans fight, so will the British and possibly the French too. But the Germans, the Italians, the Spanish, the Greeks, the Turks…”
“The Foreign Intelligence Service seems to agree with you, Anton. If we were to rapidly occupy Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania, we could fortify that territory and make it clear that any attempt by NATO to regain it would be met with fierce resistance from our own forces, up to and including the use of tactical nuclear weapons.” Orlov gave a dramatic, almost thespian pause, as though he were standing on a podium. “At that point, we would be in a position to dictate terms to the West that would guarantee our national survival, while simultaneously bringing thousands of Russian peo-ple’s and the ports along the Baltic coastline back under our control.”
***
The diplomat introduced himself with a clipped, polished accent. “Pleasure to make your acquaint-ance, General Kelland.” General Matthew Kelland Junior had barely stepped off of the plane after its arrival in Belgium before he was bombarded with greetings and salutes from civilian appointees and military staff officers alike. The long drive from the rain-dampened airfield to his quarters out-side Brussels had seen General Kelland introduced to his Belgian adjutant, who in turn had given the new Supreme Allied Commander Europe his itinerary for the day. After briefly visiting his quar-ters, Kelland had been driven to NATO’s civilian headquarters in Brussels to meet with the Alli-ance’s civilian chief, Sir Alexander Longmire.
“Likewise, sir.” An awkward silence followed momentarily, before the British civil servant contin-ued the conversation.
“Tell me about your military experience, General. I’ve heard a lot about you as a soldier, but I want to hear it from the horse’s mouth.” Kelland almost shrugged. He couldn’t sum up over twenty years of service in the United States Army in a few sentences.
“Well, sir, I graduated West Point back in ’97. I was a company commander in a mechanized infan-try unit when we went into Iraq back in ’03.”
“Ah, yes, I read about that. Your unit took the Republican Guard apart.”
“Yes, sir, I was in the Third Mech.” Almost two decades had passed since Kelland had first led men into combat; his company had been responsible leading the bold, daring attack into the now-infamous Karbala Gap, destroying over thirty Republican Guard tanks over the course of a twenty-minute engagement. A young captain in his late twenties at the time, Kelland had been an old man by the standards of the eighteen and nineteen-year olds under his command. “After that I did a couple of tours with the Pentagon, went to Staff College in Kansas, and then got command of an armored cavalry regiment.” As though he were a child listening to a grandparents’ war story, the Longmire nodded excitedly. “Then they put me on the Joint Staff at the Pentagon and bumped me up to brigadier-general. After that I got command of the First Cavalry Division, then the Eighteenth Airborne Corps.” For the briefest of moments, Kelland allowed his hand to reach up to his face and run over the deep scar in his forehead, a blemish earned in Iraq when shrapnel from a rocket-propelled grenade had buried itself there.
“I can see why you were appointed as our new SACEUR,” said Longmire. “You are an experienced officer as any. General Rowley was a good man and an outstanding general. I hope you can keep up the pace with him.” To Kelland, it almost sounded like a threat. The Englishman’s jovial tone could easily have been mistaken as one of sardonicism or irony, but Kelland, who had worked with the British Army countless times before, new it to be nothing of the sort. Technically, as NATO’s Secretary-General, Longmire was an equal of Kelland. Longmire held leadership of the civilian side of the Alliance, while Kelland was in charge of the military side of things. In practice, the newly-appointed SACEUR would always find himself looking at civilian figures such as Longmire as holding seniority. “I take it you are up to speed on our new eastwards focus, General?”
Kelland nodded to the affirmative. “I am, sir. We’re shifting the focus away from counterterrorism and back in Moscow’s direction.”
“Putin got one over on us in Ukraine,” Longmire admitted. “We didn’t expect Russia to act with such efficiency. And likewise, we didn’t expect Russian forces to perform as well as they did in Syr-ia. They left us ‘playing catch-up’ as you Americans like to say.”
Reluctantly, Kelland had to agree with his civilian counterpart. The Kremlin’s previous resident had stunned the Western world with two successful military interventions in Europe and the Middle East, as well as with various political and espionage accomplishments around the world. It had tak-en the West too long to realise that Russia was once again playing the dangerous game of great powers. “Orlov only continued what his predecessor started,” the American replied. “Losing Vene-zuela as an ally hurt him badly. And the current unrest in Russia is something that I must admit I find troubling.”
“You think Orlov fears suffering the same fate?” Asked the Brit. A former ambassador and cabinet minister with a distinguished diplomatic career, Longmire was respected in his field, but he wasn’t known for literacy in military matters.
“I think it’s certainly possible, sir. If Moscow believes Western sanctions are being imposed with the result of causing Orlov’s downfall, that’s where my key cause for concern lies.”
“Your predecessor thought much the same thing, Matthew – May I call you Matthew? – and I tend to follow that same train of thought.” Kelland nodded a response to Longmire’s question. “I do worry that if the Russians decide they’re facing a repeat of what happened in Libya or Venezuela then they might decide to use all those tanks sitting on their borders.”
“Well, sir, that’s what our recent exercise was held for, to deter Russia from doing anything like that. I’m sure Moscow got the message.” Kelland wasn’t as sure as he made out.
***
Her orders had come through an encrypted messaging app on her laptop. Katelin Simmons, known in her home country as Katarina Sobriev, was nervous as she left her London flat. Clambering into the drivers’ seat of her Nissan, she took paused for a moment to catch her breath before igniting the engine and heading towards Heathrow Airport.
The journey to the airport was tense, if uneventful. In the waiting area, she mentally rehearsed her actions. A man whom she had never before laid eyes on before was entering the United King-dom. She had been forwarded a picture of him, and told that for the purpose of today, he was a friend from university who would be staying with her for the next several weeks, visiting London from his home country of Ukraine. Two policemen, armed with submachine guns, patrolled past her parked vehicle, nearly causing Sobriev to vomit with anticipation, before she finally caught sight of her new roommate.
“Miroslav!” She called out jubilantly, catching the attention of the bearded, stout individual. “Over here!” Her fellow spy – she had not actually been told that was the case, but it was obvious enough – looked towards Sobriev and dashed over.
“Hello, Katie!” He greeted, with a thick eastern accent. “It’s been too long! How have you been?”
“I’ve been good, thanks. How was it back home? We haven’t seen each other in forever!” To out-siders, the meeting of two Russian intelligence officers appeared to be nothing more than two old friends reuniting after spending years apart. They hugged, laughed and giggled about in-jokes be-tween two close companions. For two people who had never before met one another, the show they managed to put on was an impressive deception, worthy of an Oscar.
Unfortunately for Sobriev and ‘Miroslav’ – that was certainly not his real name – not everybody watching the meeting was a clueless passer-by. Officers from Britain’s Security Service, known more popularly as MI5, had been carrying out surveillance on the suspected SVR officer who used the pseudonym ‘Katelin Simmons’, for the past four days.
“Who do you think our new friend is?” Asked one of the surveillance officers, a man who wished more than anything that his current situation would change so he could spark up another Marl-boro. “He’s no foreign exchange student, that’s for sure,” replied the second officer, sitting behind the wheel of the blue BMW.
***
“I have consulted with the General Staff, and with the commanders of the Western Military Dis-trict and the Northern Fleet, sir,” informed General Anton Nikolaev. “A plan of action has been formulated from our General Operational Plan.”
President Orlov was impressed at the speed with which Nikolaev had come back to him. It had barely been a week since the last meeting between the two men, and already the Chief of the General Staff had a plan to propose. “Go ahead, Anton. Run me through this plan of yours.”
The two men were sat alone, surrounded by the grey walls of the Kremlin’s deep underground command centre. An electronic map was active on a screen bolted to the wall at the far end of the briefing room. To Nikolaev, it seemed awfully lonely, with the rest of Russia’s Defence Council missing from this current consultation.
“What we have devised here, is Operation Scalpel. In essence, the plan allows for a large-scale ar-moured, mechanised, and airborne assault into the three Baltic Republics of Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania, along with the seizure of strategic islands in the Baltic Sea and off of the coast of Norway. The objective of Operation Scalpel would not be to fight the entirety of the NATO alliance on even terms. Rather, we would occupy large portions of Alliance territory with extreme speed, and then make the cost in lives, equipment, and money too high for NATO to consider recovering their lost territory. This will leave us in a position to dictate terms to the West in order so reverse our own economic issues and prevent a potential uprising, supported by NATO, against Russia’s legitimate government.” Nikolaev glanced at his papers. “I should add, we have already begun efforts to move our commando units into place to strike various targets throughout Europe.”
Orlov flicked through the folder in front of him. Charts showed troop dispositions and maps point-ed westwards, showing lines of advance of Russian ground forces units. More graphs indicated predicted casualties, while indicators of various sizes told the reader of the positions of Russian ground, air, naval, and missile units from Murmansk all the way down to Belarus and the southern border with Ukraine. “I am impressed,” was all he said at first. “I see the plan involves seizing Swe-dish territory. They are a neutral. Is this a good idea?”
“I questioned that myself, Ivan,” the General admitted. “The GRU believes that even in seizing Gotland, we can keep Sweden out of the war with the threat of attacks against their national infra-structure. I concur with that assessment; the Swedes are not exactly a militaristic people.”
President Orlov gazed at the papers in front of him, giving the appearance of a man whose shoul-ders carried the weight of the world. His eyes were heavy and tired, and it would have taken a sea-soned soldier to tell where the creases in his suit had once been. “I am prepared to authorise Op-eration Scalpel, should our current domestic situation continue on its current path. What are our chances of success?”
“The General Staff feels that we have a sixty percent change of success, given the proper mobilisa-tion period, and time to secure diplomatic support and pledges of certain NATO members to avoid conflict. I will not pretend that this is not an immensely risky direction to go down. It could end with the entirety of NATO allied against us, or worse, with nuclear fire destroying all then we have worked for.”
“I understand the risks, Anton, I truly do.” The Chief of the General Staff wondered if his superior was correct in that assertion. “But if we do not act, if we cannot gain concessions from the West, then the people of this country will throw us out of the walls of this building. They are growing tired of food shortages. You saw the mob outside the last time you were here. How long do you think it will be before their numbers are doubled, even tripled?”
Nikolaev nodded. “What does the FSB say about this? The Interior Ministry?”
“They feel the same way. We’ve seen this happen a dozen times before, Anton. Libya, Venezuela, Uzbekistan, even Romania back in 1990. Not here. I will not be the man who presides over the death of the Russian State.”
“If that is your view, sir, then I await your orders to begin preparations to implement Operation Scalpel.”
“How long will you need to make your preparations?”
“From the moment you order a mobilisation, we can be ready in twenty-one days. I would like more time, but all of our war plans can be carried out with minimal warning.”
“Very well, Anton Stepanovich.” The President closed his folder. “In that case, I will confer with the Defence Council first thing tomorrow to formally authorise Operation Scalpel.”
