The War of the Spooks - a story by Forcon & James G

[James G]

Forcon and I are writing another short war story. It will be a collaboration between the two of us: a shared work.

It is the modern day and Britain is at war, on the home front too.

[James G]

The War of the Spooks


One


D, minus three

Rhiannon Hargreaves left Thames House and walked across to a nearby secure car park. There was a Security Service vehicle there which she had the keys for. Once inside it and pulling out, she counted the months since she’d last driven. Four months it was, just after the New Year. Living and working in London, and usually taken by someone else in their car when working outside the city, she hadn’t driven herself in some time. It was impossible to not recall how to though: driving was like riding a bike, you never forgot. That last time had been in her dad’s beloved Jaguar. She’d been speeding across the Buckinghamshire countryside where she’d grown up and gotten a fine. With this car’s particular number plates, there would be no traffic stop done. Still… she wouldn’t be racing around today. Rhiannon turned the car radio on and retuned the station. Whoever had had the car last had it on a classical music station: she went to Radio 2. It was the late morning and there was the musical quiz show on. When given a chance, Rhiannon liked to play along and test her musical knowledge. She’d always wanted to ring in and have a go yet the opportunity had never come. She could imagine what she’d say when asked about herself. ‘Hi, I’m Rhiannon and I’m a spook for the Queen’… or something like that.

Soon on the A-40 Westway crossing West London, Rhiannon put on a poor showing with the quiz. She got one correct and would have given the right answer for another if allowed another minute. The rest of her mental answers were wrong or she didn’t know. It would have been rather embarrassing if she’d been a caller! Her phone had been plugged into the car so she could talk and drive on the hands-free. Her girlfriend Sasha called just before the eleven o’clock news. Sash-Bash said she got the part: she was going to be starring in the hit television show Sacred Hearts starting in July. An actor – not an actress anymore as was the correct term –, Sash-Bash and she had been together for nearly two years. It had been six months before Rhiannon told her girlfriend what she really did for a living. Sash-Bash had taken it better than Rhiannon had feared after the lie about working for the government quango the Land Registry was admitted to. To be honest, her girlfriend had been excited to be dating a spook from MI-5. The two of them had moved in together afterwards. Rhiannon now had to consider the possible outcomes of Sash-Bash’s private life one day making the celebrity gossip columns but she told herself she could deal with that should it occur. Staff at Thames House, fellow intelligence officers like her, had been unwittingly on the edges of the public eye before without too much drama. Rhiannon congratulated her and told Sash-Bash she’d be home late tonight. They’d celebrate then. Sash-Bash ended the conversation by telling Rhiannon not to shoot anyone. The joke was appreciated for its good intentions - Sash-Bash knew full well Rhiannon had never handled a gun, let alone carried one with her as a regular thing - and they bid each other farewell until this evening.

The call ended as the news came to a conclusion. Rhiannon heard the presenter talking about the BBC reporter being in Moscow when delivering the report which she had missed but that was it. There was music on and thus no more talk of impending war. That was to do with the ongoing situation in Russia. A succession crisis after the president’s unexpected death had stupidly spiralled out of control. Now there were Russian troops on the borders of the Baltic countries and the Belorussians had theirs facing off against the Poles. War between NATO and a Russia-Belarus alliance looked likely: it was all madness. The media covered the developing story extensively. There was a lot of concern in many places. A conflict would be labelled World War Three no matter how it went. Hopefully, there wasn’t going to be a war: Rhiannon couldn’t think of anyone sensible wanting one. However, there were always some people in this world who weren’t bloody sensible! She was driving today from MI-5 headquarters in Central London out to the Special Air Service’s home station in Herefordshire to help arrange for how to deal with matters should the not very sensible, the stupid people in this world get their way and push the diplomatic crisis to a war.

Stirling Lines was located where RAF Credenhill once had been, west of the county town of Hereford. Rhiannon got there after midday. She’d listened to the twelve o’clock news and heard what that BBC reporter in Moscow had to say about the situation there. Things weren’t looking good, especially since Britain and its NATO partners were reacting to military moves made in Eastern Europe. Armies were marching off to prepare for war. Some of the details of that was mentioned on the news as it was public information but Rhiannon knew full well that so much more was secret. What was happening here at Stirling Lines certainly fitted into that latter category. Rhiannon went into a military base from where many personnel had already left. She had to get through the extensive security and then had to remain with an escort at all times. As senior employee of the Security Service she was usually someone important but here she was treated like a civilian who needed a watchdog. That armed NCO took her to where the meeting she was here to attend was taking place. The briefing room, Rhiannon discovered once inside, was full of people preparing for war. That wasn’t for a war out there in the Baltic States where NATO territory was threatened and British troops were deploying towards to defend, but here at home. Such was why Rhiannon was here. In case, when the shooting started, conflict came to Britain.

The meeting with the SAS was attended by others. Rhiannon was joined by officials from the Home Office with immigration, border & prison role and there were a couple of senior policemen as well. More military officers, not SAS, were at Stirling Lines too. A briefing was given once everyone was here. It covered Operation Castle Moat. Rhiannon knew all about that contingency plan but not everyone here did. Like her, everyone here was told the details at length. In a conflict with Russia, there was the expectation that hostile foreign operations of a military and paramilitary nature would take place on British soil. The SAS would be on hand to help combat them. Raiding operations by commandos, terrorist attacks and such like were anticipated. Castle Moat would see Britain’s own special forces employed to if not stop those, then limit their effectiveness. Those who struck against Britain would be taken on with just as much violence as they melted out. Furthermore, should the specialised armed assistance that the SAS provided needed to be present to deal with the detaining of Russian spies working with domestic traitors, they would too do that: that was why Home Office people were present alongside the police and the Security Service. Rhiannon listened to the upbeat tone of the senior SAS man as he made these remarks. He stained to add several times the term ‘hypothetical’ and continued to say ‘if’ often too. This caused her to inadvertently smile. She found it amusing without meaning to. The official position was that diplomacy and also the military preparedness of NATO to defend its member states would see a war averted but, listening to this all, anyone else would think that that war was certain. Rhiannon would play a role in Castle Moat should it go ‘live’. She was to lead an MI-5 intelligence team to support the SAS. It was something she really didn’t want to do but had to be ready to see put into action. All she could hope for was that all of this, everything including her trip to Herefordshire today, was a waste of time in the end and there wouldn’t be a war.


D, minus one

Rhiannon spent the evening out with Sasha and mutual friends of theirs. They were down in Hammersmith at a restaurant for a birthday party. Sash-Bash was the centre of attention with her film star – well… tv star – looks. Rhiannon was a little bit jealous of all the attention her girlfriend got yet that was the way things always were. The lively, outgoing and flirty Sash-Bash was why Rhiannon was with her: she wouldn’t have it any other way. Their friends were couples and singletons, men and women. Sash-Bash had a couple of acting friends there. However, there was a real mix of people from many backgrounds present. Several times, guests at the party would try to hush others when conversations turned to what was going on with the still looming threat of war. There was no need for doom and gloom, it was said: everything will turn out okay. Rhiannon kept her opinions on that to herself. She knew things that those here with her tonight didn’t know. Of course, she wished the whole issue would go away but it just wouldn’t. She had something to eat, a little to drink and a dance or two. The night moved on. It was getting pretty late but it was Friday and for most of those at the party, there was no work tomorrow. Sash-Bash had a script read-through, her first for that television show, and Rhiannon was going to give her breakfast in bed first and see her off with her full confidence expressed that everything would go well. For the sake of her girlfriend’s career, Rhiannon would make sure Sash-Bash didn’t have too much to drink tonight.

They were at the bar where she was trying to talk the actor out of getting another drink when Rhiannon felt her phone vibrating in her bag. Sash-Bash pulled a mock angry face as Rhiannon, phone in-hand mouthed a ‘sorry’ and walked outside. This was done because of the caller-ID displayed. It was work calling, her boss at Thames House. Away from the music and talking, Rhiannon took the call. Philips told her to come in: she was needed right now. He didn’t say why yet Philips wouldn’t have instructed her as he did had it not been of real importance. She knew that. Quickly going back inside the restaurant, Rhiannon found Sash-Bash. Her girlfriend had got herself a big drink. Rhiannon whispered in her ear that she had to go. They kissed briefly and she left to find a taxi. When inside on, the driver gave no funny comment – sometimes that happened – when she told him to take her to Thames House. Every black cab driver who worked Central London knew that that building near to the Houses of Parliament was where the nation’s spooks worked so it did often bring a joke or too. Rhiannon could hear that the driver had the news on in the taxi. There was a news item from a journalist in Poland. He was saying that there were ‘unconfirmed reports’ that a shooting incident had taken place on that country’s border with Belarus.

Up on the building’s third floor, Rhiannon met with her section head. Philips already had several others with him. She saw their worried looking faces. It was late on the Friday night and the office was very busy. There were always staff present to be on-hand in a crisis but this was different. Staffers were racing in en masse. The last time that Rhiannon had seen such a thing was during a recent weekend terrorist attack. An impromptu stand-up briefing was held. Philips explained that there had been gunfire exchanged on the Polish-Belarus frontier (as Rhiannon had heard in the taxi) but details there were sketchy apart from there had been NATO casualties. What Philips said was more important than that was the news coming out of Moscow. It was the early hours of the morning there but the ambassador in the Russian capital was on the phone to the Foreign Office here in London with the line kept open. Rhiannon was told what he was saying: there were Russia’s ubiquitous little green men, openly carrying weapons and balaclava-clad, surrounding the UK diplomatic compound. Philips started issuing instructions. MI-5 was to do many things should the country go to war to protect Britain with Operation Castle Moat being only one component. That was what Rhiannon was focused upon though. She had one of her junior people start making calls to get things organised ready to go with that. Her subordinates were getting unexpected and unwelcome calls to come in. Rhiannon was doing this when the big hand on the wall clock above her swept past midnight. She didn’t notice.


D Day

It was two hours later when Philips called his personnel together again. Rhiannon went over to him along with others. He made a short announcement. That ongoing phone-call with the ambassador remaining on the line to London for some time had suddenly and inexplicitly been cut off. That had happened at the same time as there’d been explosions throughout parts of in Eastern Europe. The expected conflict with Russia had started. World War Three was on. With that, Castle Moat was active and what would be called the war of the spooks would begin.

Rhiannon took a deep breath. Fear swept over her. It passed. What followed was a determination to get the job done. Yet, while it had to be done, it wasn’t going to be anything she would enjoy. She would be fighting for her country, just like those SAS men were, but also fighting for her beloved Sash-Bash too. Her fight would be without guns nor crawling around in a muddy field in some Eastern European backwater. Rhiannon and the MI-5 spooks with her would face the enemy here in Britain.

[lordroel]

Feb 3, 2020 16:55:53 GMT James G said:

Forcon and I are writing another short war story. It will be a collaboration between the two of us: a shared work.

It is the modern day and Britain is at war, on the home front too.

Another one, that is super, how many World War IIIs can the United Kingdom handle on the forum.

[forcon]

Feb 3, 2020 17:06:16 GMT lordroel said:

Feb 3, 2020 16:55:53 GMT James G said:

Forcon and I are writing another short war story. It will be a collaboration between the two of us: a shared work.

It is the modern day and Britain is at war, on the home front too.

Another one, that is super, how many World War IIIs can the United Kingdom handle on the forum.

At some point we're just going to full Sum of All Fears and decide starting a real war through backhanded tricks and skullduggery is easier than writing one!

[James G]

Feb 3, 2020 18:22:13 GMT forcon said:

Feb 3, 2020 17:06:16 GMT lordroel said:

Another one, that is super, how many World War IIIs can the United Kingdom handle on the forum.

At some point we're just going to full Sum of All Fears and decide starting a real war through backhanded tricks and skullduggery is easier than writing one!

I'm not sure I signed up for that in particular... I'd rather just have an ice cream than start a nuclear war.
Personal preference and all that.

[lordroel]

Feb 3, 2020 18:38:11 GMT James G said:

Feb 3, 2020 18:22:13 GMT forcon said:

At some point we're just going to full Sum of All Fears and decide starting a real war through backhanded tricks and skullduggery is easier than writing one!

I'm not sure I signed up for that in particular... I'd rather just have an ice cream than start a nuclear war.
Personal preference and all that.

Not to derail the thread, but is the ice cream shaped as a ICBM.

[forcon]

Two

Each step through the murky darkness brought Yuri one step closer to oblivion. It was two in the morning, and late yesterday afternoon, Yuri had received his orders; break into the American airbase at Lakenheath and destroy as many aircraft as possible…and kill as many personnel as possible as well. Major Timofoyev was Yuri’s official title, although his men called him ‘sir’ or ‘boss.’ The thirty-six-year-old, a native of a small, isolated town in the Ural Mountains, was no stranger to what he felt now; fear, anticipation, exhaustion, pride and also excitement as well. He was a soldier through-and-through, serving first as a paratrooper and then as a special operations officer in Georgia, Ukraine, Syria and even further flung warzones.

The team had infiltrated Britain separately; Timofoyev and one of his senior sergeants, a language expert by the name of Vladimir, had flown into the country on false passports which identified them as Croatian businessmen. This had happened last week, as the crisis between NATO and Russia worsened but before it threatened to devolve into outright war. The remainder of the team had come ashore by submarine, sneaking into a landing site near Great Yarmouth after disembarking from a freighter ship, one which flew under an Algerian flag. The link-up between Timofoyev and the majority of his soldiers had gone smoothly despite an unnerving moment when a police patrol car drove past the farmhouse in the Norfolk countryside where the Spetsnaz soldiers were hidden. It was unusual to see the police out here, Yuri had been told by his intelligence expert. In any case, they were not likely to be armed, so they could be dealt with easily if such a thing was needed…but their disappearance would set off alarm bells and compromise the mission. In the end, Timofoyev opted to let them pass. The mission was too important to risk.

Creeping through the treeline, the twelve commandos reached their first obstacle; a concertina-wire fence. Floodlights swept up and down the fencing on thirty-second intervals. Thirty seconds. It was enough time.

The primary targets of Detachment #516s strike were the newly-arrived US Air Force F-35 stealth fighters, those that had recently been deployed to replace the 48th Fighter Wing’s venerable F-15s. Timofoyev expected to find a whole squadron of them here at Lakenheath, twenty-four aircraft; the pilots would be sleeping nearby their aircraft as a result of the heightened alert status of the base, while ground crews – mechanics, engineers, weapons experts and the like – would also be present, easy prey for the taking. Such thoughts flashed across the Major’s mind as one of his men cut through the wire with a pair of cutters that had been slung over his back. Returning the device to his rucksack, the soldier slithered through the gap in the wire, reminding Timofoyev of the Siberian husky he had kept as a child. The animal had once caught the scent of a bear and gone charging through a hole in his garden fence to confront the intruder. He cursed himself for allowing the memory of his youth to take charge of his brain at a crucial moment like this. One by one, the commandos entered the airfield’s territory. In teams of four they ran, crouched low in the moonless night, each fire-team covering the other as they advanced towards their first piece of solid cover. The steep grassy knoll overlooked the first row of hardened aircraft shelters.

The doors to most of the shelters were open; several of them had the unmistakable, ugly shape of F-35s hidden within, but it was fewer than expected. There should have been two dozen of them! Only a quarter that number of F-35s were within view, the other hangars being empty. A pair of cargo planes, gigantic C-17s, were also parked nearby, surrounded by US Air Force personnel. Some were clearly security forces, in full battle-dress with helmets and assault rifles, while others were support troops who only carried sidearms.

Timofoyev observed the target and prepared his men for the attack. As he did so, Vladimir tapped his shoulder with urgency.

“Patrol coming in from the left,” the Starshina informed, “two men, both armed.”

The two Security Forces airmen approached the grassy knoll as part of their patrol around the perimeter of the airbase. Timofoyev and his men were concealed by their camouflage uniforms – worn both for this purpose and so that his men would not be summarily shot as spies if they were captured – and by a smattering of bushes and low trees. They were hidden from the patrol at a distance such as this, but when they closed to within a few metres, the Spetsnaz detachment would surely be discovered. Using hand signals, the Major ordered his men to prepare to strike. As the airmen closed in, Timofoyev and one of his sergeants lunged forwards. The Major gripped one of the airmen by placing his left hand over his mouth and his right around the 19-year-old’s neck; before he could make even a muffled cry, another Russian plunged the blade of his knife into the boy’s throat. He died in about thirty seconds.

With the patrol subdued, Timofoyev knew he had only minutes to act. The airmen would be noted as missing when they failed to reach their next check-in point, and then the game would be up. He posted two of his men to different sectors of the knoll as snipers, ordering them to fire when the first concussion grenade detonated. Then he and the others began to commando crawl towards the tarmac. Each movement was one step closer to almost certain death. What was that poem he had learned at the Moscow Military Academy? Theirs not to make reply, theirs but to do and die, was it? Such a thing would never have been taught in the old Soviet days, but in the reforming Russian military of the early 2000s, when it looked like half a century of distrust and fear had come to an end, such fictions and philosophies had entered the curriculum of Russia’s prestigious military academies.

Towards oblivion they crawled.

He delved into a pocket on his webbing, retrieving a so-called ‘flash-bang’ grenade. Pulling the pin, he held onto it for three seconds before throwing the object towards the gaggle of airmen working on refuelling one of the nearby C-17s. There was half-a-second of terror between when the grenade landed and when it detonated. The world erupted into a cacophony of noise and terror. The snipers opened fire, shooting down men and women with well-aimed shots. The Security Forces troops began laying down fire whenever they located the tell-tale burst of a muzzle-flash. The mechanics and ground-crews scrambled for cover, some drawing their sidearms and others attempting to drag wounded comrades into cover.

Timofoyev made no distinctions. His men were experts and veterans, and in a situation like this there were few orders which he could give. They all knew their roles. Forsaking his rank, he joined in the slaughter. The Major shot dead two American security troops as they tried to emerge from behind a Humvee. He ran for the first aircraft shelter. An airman in a flight-suit fired inaccurately with his personal sidearm; Timofoyev sprayed a burst of 7.62mm gunfire into the hangar and they took another grenade, this one a high-explosive one, and lobbed it into the engine block of the F-35 within the hanger, before retreating onto the tarmac as the aircraft exploded. He could near vehicles in the distance, Security Forces’ Humvee’s. A Spetsnaz soldier fell in a hail of gunfire, and another tossed a satchel charge into a nearby hanger, exploding another F-35. One of the C-17s was rendered inoperable by several grenades thrown into the open cockpit doorway.

The Humvees arrived, drawn to the destruction like moths to a lamp. As SF soldiers disembarked, Timofoyev took command of his unit, calling the survivors – four of them at most – towards his voice. He fired and fired, ducking as American troops poured down fire from their assault rifles. He took shelter behind a burning Humvee, and three other men soon joined him, the fourth lying dead on the tarmac in a blood of blood. The gunfire ceased momentarily. A helicopter circled above them, a transport, not a gunship, but with armed airmen sitting in the doorways. Timofoyev and his men were bathed in a pool of light.

“Russian soldiers, lay down your weapons! You are surrounded!”

It ends here, thought Timofoyev. But then he looked at the faces of the survivors of his unit. Men he had spilled blood with in the far-flung conflict zones of the world; their job here was done. He couldn’t let them die here for nothing.

“Gentlemen, I believe that for us the war is over,” he told them shakily, lowering his AK-74 and placing it on the ground. He smirked in the knowledge that the two snipers he had left in over watch were likely now making their escape.

[lordroel]

Feb 4, 2020 19:03:41 GMT forcon said:

Two

Each step through the murky darkness brought Yuri one step closer to oblivion. It was two in the morning, and late yesterday afternoon, Yuri had received his orders; break into the American airbase at Lakenheath and destroy as many aircraft as possible…and kill as many personnel as possible as well. Major Timofoyev was Yuri’s official title, although his men called him ‘sir’ or ‘boss.’ The thirty-six-year-old, a native of a small, isolated town in the Ural Mountains, was no stranger to what he felt now; fear, anticipation, exhaustion, pride and also excitement as well. He was a soldier through-and-through, serving first as a paratrooper and then as a special operations officer in Georgia, Ukraine, Syria and even further flung warzones.

The team had infiltrated Britain separately; Timofoyev and one of his senior sergeants, a language expert by the name of Vladimir, had flown into the country on false passports which identified them as Croatian businessmen. This had happened last week, as the crisis between NATO and Russia worsened but before it threatened to devolve into outright war. The remainder of the team had come ashore by submarine, sneaking into a landing site near Great Yarmouth after disembarking from a freighter ship, one which flew under an Algerian flag. The link-up between Timofoyev and the majority of his soldiers had gone smoothly despite an unnerving moment when a police patrol car drove past the farmhouse in the Norfolk countryside where the Spetsnaz soldiers were hidden. It was unusual to see the police out here, Yuri had been told by his intelligence expert. In any case, they were not likely to be armed, so they could be dealt with easily if such a thing was needed…but their disappearance would set off alarm bells and compromise the mission. In the end, Timofoyev opted to let them pass. The mission was too important to risk.

Creeping through the treeline, the twelve commandos reached their first obstacle; a concertina-wire fence. Floodlights swept up and down the fencing on thirty-second intervals. Thirty seconds. It was enough time.

The primary targets of Detachment #516s strike were the newly-arrived US Air Force F-35 stealth fighters, those that had recently been deployed to replace the 48th Fighter Wing’s venerable F-15s. Timofoyev expected to find a whole squadron of them here at Lakenheath, twenty-four aircraft; the pilots would be sleeping nearby their aircraft as a result of the heightened alert status of the base, while ground crews – mechanics, engineers, weapons experts and the like – would also be present, easy prey for the taking. Such thoughts flashed across the Major’s mind as one of his men cut through the wire with a pair of cutters that had been slung over his back. Returning the device to his rucksack, the soldier slithered through the gap in the wire, reminding Timofoyev of the Siberian husky he had kept as a child. The animal had once caught the scent of a bear and gone charging through a hole in his garden fence to confront the intruder. He cursed himself for allowing the memory of his youth to take charge of his brain at a crucial moment like this. One by one, the commandos entered the airfield’s territory. In teams of four they ran, crouched low in the moonless night, each fire-team covering the other as they advanced towards their first piece of solid cover. The steep grassy knoll overlooked the first row of hardened aircraft shelters.

The doors to most of the shelters were open; several of them had the unmistakable, ugly shape of F-35s hidden within, but it was fewer than expected. There should have been two dozen of them! Only a quarter that number of F-35s were within view, the other hangars being empty. A pair of cargo planes, gigantic C-17s, were also parked nearby, surrounded by US Air Force personnel. Some were clearly security forces, in full battle-dress with helmets and assault rifles, while others were support troops who only carried sidearms.

Timofoyev observed the target and prepared his men for the attack. As he did so, Vladimir tapped his shoulder with urgency.

“Patrol coming in from the left,” the Starshina informed, “two men, both armed.”

The two Security Forces airmen approached the grassy knoll as part of their patrol around the perimeter of the airbase. Timofoyev and his men were concealed by their camouflage uniforms – worn both for this purpose and so that his men would not be summarily shot as spies if they were captured – and by a smattering of bushes and low trees. They were hidden from the patrol at a distance such as this, but when they closed to within a few metres, the Spetsnaz detachment would surely be discovered. Using hand signals, the Major ordered his men to prepare to strike. As the airmen closed in, Timofoyev and one of his sergeants lunged forwards. The Major gripped one of the airmen by placing his left hand over his mouth and his right around the 19-year-old’s neck; before he could make even a muffled cry, another Russian plunged the blade of his knife into the boy’s throat. He died in about thirty seconds.

With the patrol subdued, Timofoyev knew he had only minutes to act. The airmen would be noted as missing when they failed to reach their next check-in point, and then the game would be up. He posted two of his men to different sectors of the knoll as snipers, ordering them to fire when the first concussion grenade detonated. Then he and the others began to commando crawl towards the tarmac. Each movement was one step closer to almost certain death. What was that poem he had learned at the Moscow Military Academy? Theirs not to make reply, theirs but to do and die, was it? Such a thing would never have been taught in the old Soviet days, but in the reforming Russian military of the early 2000s, when it looked like half a century of distrust and fear had come to an end, such fictions and philosophies had entered the curriculum of Russia’s prestigious military academies.

Towards oblivion they crawled.

He delved into a pocket on his webbing, retrieving a so-called ‘flash-bang’ grenade. Pulling the pin, he held onto it for three seconds before throwing the object towards the gaggle of airmen working on refuelling one of the nearby C-17s. There was half-a-second of terror between when the grenade landed and when it detonated. The world erupted into a cacophony of noise and terror. The snipers opened fire, shooting down men and women with well-aimed shots. The Security Forces troops began laying down fire whenever they located the tell-tale burst of a muzzle-flash. The mechanics and ground-crews scrambled for cover, some drawing their sidearms and others attempting to drag wounded comrades into cover.

Timofoyev made no distinctions. His men were experts and veterans, and in a situation like this there were few orders which he could give. They all knew their roles. Forsaking his rank, he joined in the slaughter. The Major shot dead two American security troops as they tried to emerge from behind a Humvee. He ran for the first aircraft shelter. An airman in a flight-suit fired inaccurately with his personal sidearm; Timofoyev sprayed a burst of 7.62mm gunfire into the hangar and they took another grenade, this one a high-explosive one, and lobbed it into the engine block of the F-35 within the hanger, before retreating onto the tarmac as the aircraft exploded. He could near vehicles in the distance, Security Forces’ Humvee’s. A Spetsnaz soldier fell in a hail of gunfire, and another tossed a satchel charge into a nearby hanger, exploding another F-35. One of the C-17s was rendered inoperable by several grenades thrown into the open cockpit doorway.

The Humvees arrived, drawn to the destruction like moths to a lamp. As SF soldiers disembarked, Timofoyev took command of his unit, calling the survivors – four of them at most – towards his voice. He fired and fired, ducking as American troops poured down fire from their assault rifles. He took shelter behind a burning Humvee, and three other men soon joined him, the fourth lying dead on the tarmac in a blood of blood. The gunfire ceased momentarily. A helicopter circled above them, a transport, not a gunship, but with armed airmen sitting in the doorways. Timofoyev and his men were bathed in a pool of light.

“Russian soldiers, lay down your weapons! You are surrounded!”

It ends here, thought Timofoyev. But then he looked at the faces of the survivors of his unit. Men he had spilled blood with in the far-flung conflict zones of the world; their job here was done. He couldn’t let them die here for nothing.

“Gentlemen, I believe that for us the war is over,” he told them shakily, lowering his AK-74 and placing it on the ground. He smirked in the knowledge that the two snipers he had left in over watch were likely now making their escape.

F-35, but no F-22s that would be targets, and costly at that to destroy.

[James G]

'Difficulties' and division in Moscow leads to a Spetsnaz unit on a vital mission without up-to-date intelligence.

[stevep]

   James G ,

   Glad the attack was quickly suppressed but how close is it to the actual Russia attack as I would think an action like this would send a red flag, especially since they would quickly be identified as Russian military.  Expect there would be a lot of other such attacks going on, although not too many as that increases the chance of one group being found before they can attack and hence similarly generating a warning to NATO bases.  Which might already have happened here with some prior incident having increased security at this and hopefully other NATO bases.

  Steve

[James G]

Feb 5, 2020 16:08:39 GMT stevep said:

   James G ,

   Glad the attack was quickly suppressed but how close is it to the actual Russia attack as I would think an action like this would send a red flag, especially since they would quickly be identified as Russian military.  Expect there would be a lot of other such attacks going on, although not too many as that increases the chance of one group being found before they can attack and hence similarly generating a warning to NATO bases.  Which might already have happened here with some prior incident having increased security at this and hopefully other NATO bases.

  Steve

This happened after the warning came from Poland of ongoing things there. So there was a high alert stage but the Spetsnaz got in, just, yet run into more than they could handle. Security should have been better but it was enough.
The Russian op was a mess too. Poor last minute intelligence and guys sent to their doom. When the alarm bell was sounded from Eastern Europe, this should have been called off. It wasn't.

[James G]

Three


Captain Mark Collins had been at the Stirling Lines meeting the other day. He led a troop (a platoon-sized unit) of the SAS with the parent company, D Squadron, tasked for Counter-Revolutionary Warfare duties – anti-terrorism and such like – before the crisis with Russia came out of nowhere and Operation Castle Moat was drafted. Collins’ 19 Troop were cross trained for many possible missions with their utmost speciality being mountain warfare yet CRW was something they excelled at too. Called upon to remain behind in Britain when so many others in uniform were off to the Baltics and Poland, he and his men were more than capable of the doing what was asked of them. Taking on Spetsnaz striking in the UK? Securing armed spies holding up in a building? You name the mission and 19 Troop could do it. This wasn’t foolish bravado: it was what the SAS were for, especially those pre-alerted to do this. Such things couldn’t be done alone though. That was why there had been that gathering at the SAS headquarters. Working with the police and the spooks with the Security Service, plus Home Office agencies if need be, was essential.

In the days following the mini conference, many scenarios had been gamed out. Collins had taken his troop back into the ‘killing house’ at the Pontrilas camp not far from Stirling Lines. They’d done back-to-back exercises clearing rooms with live rounds used too. It was dangerous, tiring and stressful… just as it would be in real life. As to whether this was all going to be put into practice, Collins hadn’t wanted that. Who would!? War with Russia was, in his mind, insane. He had been hoping that the politicians and diplomats sorted out their differences. But things got worse. There had been briefings which Collins had attended which covered Russian troop movements in Eastern Europe and intelligence summaries of the activities of their commandos & spies preparing for war. Yet, 19 Troop had been sent to London. They’d arrived yesterday afternoon at Regent’s Park Barracks, moving into the accommodation for the TA unit of SAS which had mobilised there and was already flying out to Poland. Collins had kept the faith in common sense and diplomacy only to be let down. He’d been told a few hours ago that the conflict had started: Britain was at war with Russia. Not long afterwards, 19 Troop was called into action. They were needed not far Regent’s Park Barracks either.

The Russian Federation maintained many official diplomatic facilities in the UK. Collins had been briefed on how many there were the day before yesterday. He was unpleasantly surprised to find that there were six of them. They had an embassy, an ambassador’s residence, a defence attaché’s office, a trade representative’s office, a representative office for the International Maritime Organisation (these five in London) and a consulate-general up in Edinburgh. In addition, Belarus had an embassy in Britain’s capital too. The reason he had been looking at this list and supplied with information about each place was because there had been additions to Castle Moat contingencies. At the behest of the government, in particular the Security Minister (a junior ministerial posting within the Home Office), Collins’ troop along with the other SAS unit based in the London area were to be prepared to move against any of these in support of the Met. Police should the need arise. He was told that it had been decided in Whitehall that if British diplomatic compounds in Russia or Belarus were entered, the same would be done to theirs in Britain. Police officers would do that, with the aim of expelling diplomats in accordance with international treaties, but the SAS was to be on-hand in case one of those situations go ugly.

And an ugly situation did just occur. Just before dawn, with Collins’s troop ready to move to a variety of locations all across London where there were contingency plans for, plus also standing by to go anywhere else too, 19 Troop was instructed to go to the Defence Attaché’s Office to resolve an incident there.


They went by road. A lift in helicopters was possible, if need be, but Collins nor those above him who were giving the orders didn’t think it was necessary. A pair of trucks drove out of Regent’s Park Barracks and up to North London. The Defence Attaché’s Office was located in Highgate and almost next to Hampstead Heath, within sight of the famous Parliament Hill which offered fantastic views over the capital. Neither Collins nor his men were off to take in the sights though. They were driven to the Met. Police’s roadblock on Millfield Lane. They had set up an outer cordon several hundred yards back. Collins met with the on-scene incident commander. He’d already been told what was happening but wanted to hear directly from someone present. The story told was as expected. Police officers had been attempting to make a peaceful entry to the diplomatic compound. It was Saturday morning and few people were expected to be there. All were to be removed and detained pending the UK Border Agency (one of those Home Office agencies) taking charge of them so they could be deported from Britain now that Russia was at war with the UK. Unexpectedly, despite initial indications that the compound was almost empty, there were many Russians inside: far more than on staff, let alone that could reasonably anticipated to be there. They’d been armed and opened fire on the police. The Met. had been met not just with shots from pistols, but had also witnessed the firing of a heavy machine gun at them too. No police officers had been killed yet two were seriously wounded. That large weapon had been used to shoot up a police car as well in dramatic fashion. Faced with all of this, Collins understood why the Met. had called upon the military. Even their authorised firearms officers stood no chance against opposition like that.

19 Troop wouldn’t be rushed. Collins wouldn’t have his SAS men be forced to act quickly and lose their lives by charging in. He did this properly. He and two more men took good sighting positions and used binoculars to study the compound. He wanted to know where the Russians were, where they weren’t and to see if the ways in there which looked likely on the map were actually viable. Meanwhile, his second-in-command went ‘next door’. Behind the Defence Attaché’s Office, with an address on Highgate Hill West, was the Trade Representative’s Office. It was another sovereign compound though one which the Met. had walked into only finding a pair of security guards who gave themselves up. From inside there, Collins’ men were in what he regarded as an excellent position. As to what he and his spotters could see, 19 Troop’s commander got a look at that machine gun. On the building’s second floor, a window-pane had been smashed out and the weapon mounted inside and within the office behind that. Deadly fire could be effectively poured out over the main entrance to the compound. The field of fire was limited though. The weapon’s operators were exposed. His men who scouted the compound reported back as well, seeing other armed Russians. They were inside the building, near the entranceways but within cover. No one was outside in the grounds. With recommendations from them, plus what he’d seen himself, Collins chose two positions where to each a pair of his men would be sent to: one man as a spotter, the other a sniper. Off those men went to get set up. He went over to the building next door where his deputy was. They discussed the tactical situation from the ground there. From the second building, the way to end this stand-off seemed to be the best place to move from. Collins would use one diplomatic compound to assault another.

Still refusing to go tearing forward, Collins went back to the edge of the perimeter. He spoke with the senior police commander once more to make sure that the Met. understood what was going on. They were to be out of the way when 19 Troop went into action but would be needed afterwards. He also wanted to check on perimeter arrangements again: if the Russians tried to make a run for it, Collins wanted them if not stopped by the police then at least spotted. The chain of command for Collins ran ultimately to London District. Collins spoke over a secure line to the two-star general officer in command to present his view from the ground on how to end all of this and achieve the Castle Moat mission to securing the Russian compound. The senior man gave permission for an assault to commence. Importantly, the conversation was a ‘party line’: the Director Special Forces (another major-general) and the Security Minister were listening in. Neither interjected into the process of Collins being given to go-ahead but he felt their present regardless. With his orders, Collins made the final preparations. His spotting/sniping teams were spoken to so he could find out if there was anything he needed to know. Back over in the second compound, Collins for seemingly the hundredth time had a look at the building drawings with his deputy. They already had studied these intensively but went through them again. The internal layout of the Defence Attaché’s Office was precise. Collins had been given these by MI-5 who had them (and ones for the Embassy on Kensington Palace Gardens) on file: make of that what you want. Every man in the assault team was then spoken to individually. Collins knew these men. He was potentially sending them all off to their death. He made sure they understand their mission and that the lives of their fellow soldiers were in their hands too. Finally, Collins had one more look at the lay of the ground again from afar. He checked on that machine gun, and the two men with it. Both of them had minutes to live. Even though that weapon didn’t threaten his assault team directly, it was going to be eliminated from this fight straight away. It was too dangerous to be left alone and would change everything if put to use again, especially if those whom 19 Troop was facing were more adaptable than Collins thought they were.

The time to move came. Collins had his communications man with him. A simultaneous order was relayed: ‘go’.


The SAS assault took six minutes. Collins had thought it would be over in four. Three men were barricaded within an internal room where they were shoving documents into a furnace. They caused the delay where they held out until killed. The machine gun operators were shot dead. Armed men at the rear of the building inside a doorway and near a ground floor window being breached too had been dazzled by flashbangs. Five Russians were killed and another two wounded: seven more once more disabled by flashbangs. Eighteen Russians in total, alive and deceased, had been inside the Defence Attaché’s Office. None of them had stopped 19 Troop from taking control of it. The cost was two of Collins’ men wounded. He’d had one trooper shot and another one had been pushed down a flight of stairs. That latter man had gotten into a close fight with a Russian who’d surprised him before being shoved hard. A fire in one of the offices raged for some time before firefighters, coming in with the Met., put that out. There was a bit of damage elsewhere across the compound but it wasn’t that bad. Collins expected that no matter what was happening in Eastern Europe, unless the conflict when nuclear, there would be Russians back here one day. Diplomacy would see to that no matter how crazy it sounded. He imagined them bringing in guys to study the assault he’d commanded too.

Prisoners were taken out when hooded and bound. Collins’ men handed them over to the police. With other Met. officers, ones with intelligence taskings who usually worked with the Security Service (several years ago, Special Branch had been merged into Counter-Terrorism Command), there were proper spooks who went into the Defence Attaché’s Office as well. He saw that Hargreaves woman too. She and Collins had a quick chat. She was very professional but likeable too… Collins wondered if she was single? Her opinion on what had happened here was that the Russians encountered were almost certainly their GRU military spooks who’d been interrupted destroying documents. Someone here went a bit crazy and brought out that big gun when there wouldn’t have been orders to do anything like that. She speculated that the madness back in Moscow had a part in that. It sounded believable to him. The Russians could have distracted the police with other means, burnt theirs documents and kept their lives. Collins left her to it soon enough and went to his see his two wounded once more. The Met. had let through ambulances with medics treating both his hurt guys and a couple of the Russians too. Neither of his were going to walk away from here. Collins was glad they were alive and neither was going died from their wounds, but each was injured bad. He had to suck it up though, deal with it and move on. This was sure not to be 19 Troop’s only firefight of this war. He imagined that spooks like Hargreaves would want his men to come into play into their war soon enough…

…maybe after getting something from information uncovered here among what those unlucky Russians were trying to destroy?

[stevep]

Well he's got one thing totally wrong as Rhiannon isn't single and even if she was he wouldn't be in the running.

Otherwise sounds like a well run operation by the SAS with no serious injuries or deaths and hopefully some useful information gathered, especially if it says anything about other planned Russia operations or agents in Britain.

[James G]

Feb 5, 2020 19:29:16 GMT stevep said:

Well he's got one thing totally wrong as Rhiannon isn't single and even if she was he wouldn't be in the running.

Otherwise sounds like a well run operation by the SAS with no serious injuries or deaths and hopefully some useful information gathered, especially if it says anything about other planned Russia operations or agents in Britain.

He'd be barking up the wrong tree there.
Oh the SAS team took two major casualties in it. As to what might come from it, there are Russian agents in Britain. A very cold one of them will be who forcon shows us later today.

[amir]

Gentlemen- great timeline!

I hope the SAS doesn’t have to do many more assaults without additional support forces. In a six minute CQB fight, Collin’s 19 Troop took over 10% casualties, and has effectively lost the use of one or more of his subunit patrols (one at 50% or two at 75%) until his wounded men return or replacements (L squadron or combining with another attrited unit) are integrated and trained up. It’s true that he accomplished the mission and inflicted disproportionate casualties on the GRU, but his losses limit his tactical flexibility in future operations. The “good” news is that once the diplomatic missions are secured most other targets should not require a CQB assault unless there are extenuating circumstances (sensitivity of location, collateral damage concerns, etc) and allow for combined operations using Specialist Firearms Units, TA infantry, or other armed elements for support or even to conduct portions of the assault.

The scene with the Spetsnaz assault on Lakenheath was very well done. Good to see them cast into a direct action mission that is not a suicide mission- difficult yes, and a strategic decision to incur a high level of casualties to inflict a degree of disruption (although maybe less than expected) on a key USAF main operating base (MOB). The major and his fellow survivors will doubtless be interrogated, and a manhunt should be launched for the uncaptured members of the team, but my assumption is this likely not the only direct action mission the Spetsnaz launched, so there is a disruption effect achieved and a further diversion of resources in the manhunt. Further, the Russian spetsnaz are all professional long service soldiers unlike the Soviet era version. It is could be that the survivors have a post attack plan to either evade, or conduct follow on operations given their higher levels of experience and training,