ARMAGEDDON'S SONG (Volume 3) 'Fight Through'

by FARMAN, ANDY

  The President cleared his throat loudly, interrupting the officer in mid flow.

  “Commander, er…Donnelly?”

  Caught unawares the officer blinked and gaped at the President before fully turning from the screen to face him.

  “It’s Donkley, sir.”

  “Did Admiral Gee leave you any notes before he left?”

  The commander looked confused

  “Erm… like his itinerary, sir?”

  The President smiled tightly.

  “I was thinking more along the lines of a piece of paper with the heading, ‘What pisses the President off most’. It would be a short list, I’m sure. However, somewhere near the top would have been Facts, Figures, Statistics and Graphs…just keep to the good stuff and I’m sure we will get along fine, Commander.”

  For a long second the briefer was motionless

  “The good stuff?”

  “Anything that doesn’t make me feel that I am being forced to watch an Open University math and chemistry programme.”

  The briefer didn’t watch British TV, but he got the message anyway and after somewhat regretfully turning over half a dozen pages of notes, the graph was replaced by the Pacific once more.

  “USS John C Stennis and the USS Constellation battle groups have left the Hawaiian Islands along with the USS Essex, USS Boxer and the amphibious assault vessels of 2nd Marine Expeditionary Brigade, but it is likely that any landings may already have taken place by the time they arrive. USS Saratoga and USS Kitty Hawk are in the final stages of reactivation from the reserve fleet and will be ready to accompany the 1st and 4th MEB’s, which are forming up at San Diego. All three MEB’s will constitute the 1st Marine Landing Division for any future offensive moves in PTO. Units of the Royal Australian, Royal New Zealand and allied navies are proceeding at best speed from their former positions covering the Pacific approaches to Australia, however it is doubtful that they will be in a position to intercept before the invasion fleet nears land.”

  The President interrupted once more. “Any intelligence as to which part of the coast they are aiming for?”

  “No sir, their course is still due south, as of last reports at noon today.” Commander Donkley moved back to his prepared text.

  “We have detached the USS San Sebastian from the battle group and she is also making best speed to intercept and assist HMAS Hooper. The Hooper is currently experiencing difficulties with her sonar suite and as such at risk of detection, or losing contact.”

  “How long before Nimitz can get underway?”

  “She will not clear port for several more days Mister President”

  An hour later the room had cleared of all those without the need to know the rest of the briefings topics, leaving Terry Jones with the floor.

  His first item was not one of great secrecy, but it was not of sufficient import for the previous session, however it was of personal interest to the President, Henry Shaw and of course himself.

  “I received news several hours ago that the cell that carried out the killings of Scott Tafler, Major Bedonavich and the two British police officers, has been arrested after a raid by the Special Air Service. They are all Russian, all are KGB Spetznaz forces officers………”

  The President cut him off mid-sentence.

  “Do they know that we want them?”

  “Mister President, they do know and they also point out that the killings took place on British soil.”

  “Those bastards not only killed an American intelligence agent, but they also killed two of the people responsible for ensuring we did not lose the war before it had even started. I hope their Home Secretary realises that?” He was determined that the United States was going to have its pound of flesh, and he wasn’t prepared to standby whilst the individuals concerned sat in a warm cell for the next twenty years. Terry Jones did not give a direct reply, but continued with what he had been in the process of saying.

  “After the raid the building was thoroughly searched, and the police found pretty conclusive evidence that the same cell were responsible for the missile attacks on London, Portsmouth and the oil refinery at Canvey Island.” Terry paused for a moment.

  “Over a thousand people alone died when Canary Wharf collapsed, so when the Met Commissioner promised me they would hang for it once they’d been tried, I believed him, sir.”

  The President was not as convinced as Terry Jones, but that was something he would take up with the prime minister himself, always providing of course that the United Kingdom wasn’t a newly conquered Soviet state, in a month or so. There was nothing further to be said on the subject and Terry Jones had inserted a USB into the drive running the plasma screen, he was now waiting for a signal to begin his briefing proper.

  “Okay, Mister Jones…what else do you have for me?”

  In the entire time that the war had been in progress these were the first images the President had really looked at. He was either far too tired or occupied with the business of running a country at war to have much inclination to watch the tube.

  The news agencies war correspondents footage appeared several times a day on TV, and it was almost constantly on cable, but such was the agreement his government had forced upon the networks there was nothing truly graphic. Americans could no longer watch news from virtually any source they chose, since the Internet had been locked down as it, and all forms of communications, had come under tight Federal control.

  Early in the war the news agencies had of course screamed blue murder when the emergency powers had come into play and they had taken their argument before a Supreme Court judge. As an ex–serviceman, and the father of two sons and a daughter who were in war zones, the judge had listened to their hackneyed argument that ‘the people have a right to know’, and after due consideration, which lasted all of thirty seconds, he had announced his decision.

  “A wife has the right not to know she is a widow because you first showed her kids their Father’s body ‘live and as it happens’ on national television…case dismissed!”

  As the battalion of lawyers had stood to leave, confident that their employers would find certain ways to circumvent the ruling, the judge had banged his gavel once more to get their attention.

  “And before you go people, that gentleman at the back of the court tells me that selling uncensored footage to an agency in a neutral country would be a very bad idea.” Having filed past the figure in air force blue wearing the rank and insignia of a colonel in the USAF Space Command, they had duly conveyed the judge’s comments to the network chiefs.

  Twenty-four hours later a two billion dollar satellite owned by a Brazilian network had been broadcasting a live report from a well-known US network correspondent of the fighting at Leipzig airport when the satellite went off the air permanently.

  After that incident the US networks couldn’t even give away uncensored footage.

  Pressing the key, the plasma screen had filled with the image of combats aftermath. Idly noting that the picture taker had not been a professional photographer, the President took in the scene.

  British infantrymen and Soviet paratroopers lay in those postures that only the dead can achieve whilst American troops either stood about either watching the cameraman work, or were in the background gently lifting the bodies of the dead Brits they had soldiered alongside of into body bags. The angle changed with the next half dozen shots, and the President got the feeling he was watching a crime scene being recorded. The last four photographs were of a Soviet paratrooper; two were of him lying on a forest floor, quite obviously dead. An American paratrooper was knelt behind in the last two, propping up the body. The young American was looking into the camera as he held the corpses head steady for the picture, and the President found himself staring at the living man rather than the subject of the photograph.

  “How old is he?” he asked quietly, almost in a whisper.

  “Forty nine, Mr President.” Terry answered.

  “No Terry, I mean the 82nd tr
ooper.”

  Terry paused, taken back momentarily before consulting photocopied sheets of information. Everything connected with the incident had been recorded in long hand, and even a list of all the allied troops involved, the dead and the living, was available.

  “I believe that is Specialist First Class Tony Beckett, US Army Reserve and a New York cop. He is twenty four, and he was responsible for evidencing the incident.”

  “His eyes look older.” Said the President, looking hard at the tired face, streaked with dirt and camouflage cream.

  “He looks a little like your son, Henry,” but General Shaw didn’t reply, he also was looking at the screen but his mind was far away with the USS Nimitz battle group in Australia, where both his son and daughter were right now.

  “Is that young man still alive, Terry?”

  He got a nod in reply.

  “He is in New York having accompanied the body and the evidence stateside. I believe he is currently on a twenty four hour pass before returning to his unit.”

  The President looked again at the young American before turning his attention is the dead Russian paratrooper.

  “So if this guy is Colonel General Alontov, where are the rank badges, and what proof do we have that this is him and not a set up?”

  The next two pictures were of the same dead Russian, but this time he was laid out naked on a slab.

  Without a beating heart to circulate the blood about the body it had settled, drawn downwards by gravity to give his back a purple, mottled look, whilst the rest of him wore the pallor of death.

  “The finger prints taken from the corpse in the forest, and again in New York match the several sets we had already acquired from his time in London and the States.”

  Terry elected to skip the rest of the photos of the post mortem that had been a necessary part of the investigation.

  “That was the easy bit, Mister President.”

  Scanned images of the first of the pages recovered from the forest appeared on the screen alongside the English translation.

  “The hard part is deciding if this is disinformation…” The screen changed again to another page, where several well-known names appeared along with their code names and contact details.

  “…or if at least one of these names has been feeding the enemy details of what he has been privy to on senate oversight committees for the past decade?”

  A light on the top of the telephone receiver in front of Henry Shaw began to blink and he picked it up, identifying himself in a low voice before covering the mouthpiece so he could listen to the caller without any of the briefing being overheard at the other end of the line.

  Scrolling through all but the last two pages bearing Peridenko’s writing, Terry revealed eighty-three names of men and women of many nationalities, and resident in neutral countries as well as the warring ones.

  The President recognised more than a few of the names and others he had actually met at one time or another. Before he had gained the presidency two of those individuals had been on first names terms with him, although in the business sense rather than social.

  “So what are we going to do about this, arrest the ones in this country and inform the other governments?”

  “Neither, Mr President.” In the world of espionage there was very little that was black and white, in fact the best they could really manage was various shades of grey.

  “This list, if genuine, is by no means every agent they have in the world, if indeed they are agents, and we may never know why it was written or why a soldier had it hidden in his clothing.” Terry went on to explain.

  “Handwriting analysis proves that this was written by Anatoly Peridenko, but is it his list of his best agents, his worst agents or is this the membership list for an online dungeons and dragons web ring?” The President was pondering over Terry’s words, listening to his spymaster.

  “The bottom line is, we arrest no one today and we tell no other government today. It would only take one slip up, one mistake, for this knowledge to be compromised. As it is we can watch these people and assess this list’s value, and if they are working for the enemy camp then we can use that knowledge to control them, the information they have access to, or we can even feed them what we want them to see. Either way, it is of no immediate use to us knowing if…” Terry looked up the screen.

  “…if for instance, ‘Tuscan Ranger’ is a KGB master spy or the equivalent of Woody Allen as 007.”

  “Or just,” Put in Ben Dupre, “A fifth level Barbarian warrior with level two spell casting abilities.”

  The President shook his head slowly.

  “It’s bad enough that we could have been penetrated so seriously, but now I know we’re in trouble if my FBI chief is familiar with nerdy role playing games.”

  Ben shrugged as Terry chuckled, but then the President returned to the business at hand.

  “So, it’s a case of, better the spy you know than the spy you don’t, then?”

  Terry nodded in agreement, which hardly pleased the chief executive.

  “So is that it?”

  “No Mister President, there is more and I believe that it could possibly be of practical use to us, if not against the new Soviet Union, then certainly against the PRC.” He brought up on the screen the last two page of Peridenko’s list, and these bore names of individuals from the PRC, North Korea, and all the countries of the new Soviet Union, including Russia.

  “If I were a gambling man, I would be willing to bet all my money that Peridenko had plans to achieve high office, and had already put into place the means to acquire the Premiership.”

  The names on the screen were all military men, and all in prominent positions in their countries armed forces.

  “Which I think you will agree indicates an element of foresight and forward planning.” He highlighted a trio of Chinese officers.

  “For instance, if you weren’t willing to share power with your principle ally then the positions these characters hold could give you the knife to stick into the PRC’s proverbial back.” One name in particular stood out due to his apparent position in the Peoples Republics equivalent of America’s National Security Agency.

  The Chinese text appeared and with it a translation. Terry removed from an inside pocket a copy of the CD Rom which Serge had carried, placing it before him on the conference table.

  “Alontov also carried a CD Rom sewn into his clothing and this is booby trapped with some very aggressive viruses, however despite this and the fact that the software and hardware to play this are rather specialised, NSA is confident that they can tell us what the hell it is exactly within a few more hours.”

  The rest of the room were looking at the translation, but most of it was apparently referring to the CD Rom.

  “Mister Jones, why would he be carrying a CD and not a USB? And do we have any ideas what it does?”

  “The first is simple sir; a CD is more resistant to electro-magnetic pulse, EMP, than a USB. Secondly, there is a chance that this disc is something that may get us access to somewhere that would be of advantage to us. I cannot say more than that at the moment, because we just don’t know for certain.”

  Lord knows we could do with some luck, thought the President.

  “So what are we going to call this thing? And who will have access?”

  “The codename for the CD’s location and its standalone systems is ‘Church’. All matters related to the contents of the CD will be known as Choir Practice, and we in this room, plus the three specialists who are cracking the CD, are ‘The Choir’.”

  “Spare me!” grunted the President, disparagingly under his breath.

  “Is there an issue with the choice of code name, sir?”

  “No, I am sure that is adequate, Mr Jones…but I won’t hang up the bunting until we know more.”

  He looked across at Henry who was replacing the telephone receiver.

  “General Shaw, are you ready with the Guillotine and Equaliser updates?”
/>
  Terry cleared the screen and ejected his disc, handing the floor back to the CJC.

  Henry placed his own disc in the drive, bringing up Gansu Province and zooming in the picture on to a range of mountains southwest of the Gobi desert.

  “We, or rather the men on the ground behind enemy lines in the PRC, have met with a serious set-back and they have taken casualties.”

  Leaning forward in his seat the President interrupted.

  “Are they compromised?”

  With a shake of the head Henry explained.

  “There has been a great deal of snowfall in the past week out there, and the storm that had them socked in added a shit load more. The teams were scaling a rock face of about 500 feet in height when a passing PRC helicopter triggered an avalanche. Two men are dead including one of the team leaders, another three have injuries that will prevent them continuing, and in addition to this, three of the laser designators have been destroyed.”

  The President breathed the Eff word.

  “Can they continue as planned?”

  “That’s a negative, sir.”

  “How long do we have before we need to give them a revised plan?”

  “It is not necessary sir; Major Dewar is going for the ICBM field. He has left two of the slightly injured behind to look after the fracture cases and he has taken the remainder, plus the remaining designators westwards toward the silos.”

  “Is he authorised to make that decision, General?” The President had been trying to visualise the condition the teams were now in, and the adverse weather conditions they had encountered he assumed that with their losses the commander would have requested instructions.

  “Firstly, he is the commander on the ground and knows their capabilities better than we do, and secondly he is British.” Henry shrugged.

  “He doesn’t work for us Mister President.”

  The President glared at Henry.

  “You know I didn’t mean that General. This is a joint operation, but doesn’t he have to ask permission before he writes off half of the mission goals?”

  General Shaw nodded an apology.