by FARMAN, ANDY
Colonel Lužar had left the tank after unclipping from its storage place an AMD 65, the tank crews folding stock version of the AKM. His loader, similarly armed, had accompanied him into the ruins where Lužar had half hoped to find his enemy still alive. It had taken courage to remain there all alone and in the knowledge that the best you could hope for was to be captured once your ammunition ran out, but you had to be a real optimist to count on that as an outcome.
His enemy had been lying face down in the rubble, one leg at an unnatural angle and the material of the camouflage trousers soaked in blood. Lužar gently rolled him over onto his back and using a penlight he’d looked at the face of a young man in his early twenties. One side of the soldier’s head had a strange uneven look about it; the result of being crushed by flying masonry but the colonel had felt for a pulse anyway. The half lidded, dead eyes stared back at him as Lužar had looked him over. The uniform and equipment were British, and he had read the name on the tag above his victim’s breast pocket before removing the 9mm Glock from its webbing holster on the dead soldiers fighting order.
Returning to his command tank he had climbed inside and closed the hatch, turning up the internal lighting before unloading the pistol and stripping it for inspection. He’d found the weapon had been recently cleaned and lightly oiled, which were hardly the actions of demoralised troops at the verge of breaking. With the lighting doused once again Lužar had unbuttoned the hatch and watched the infantry place inside a shallow grave the body of 2Lt Reed. J, Royal Artillery.
Back in the here and now the colonel was still mulling over the significance of apparently well-trained and motivated troops, and their conspicuous absence from the field.
Russia: Same time.
The van passed through the talkative baker’s hamlet, the buildings all in darkness and not a soul was in sight. So far the roads had been empty of civilian traffic that were for once complying with the curfew, thanks to the extra militia drafted in from surrounding regions, but those extra men not employed on enforcing the curfew, they were committed to the house searches and cordoning suspect areas such as the forest the van was heading for.
Five miles from the edge of the forest, the van turned onto a farm track and from then on its passengers were treated to a rough ride. Caroline powered down the laptop she had been plotting their course on, it was impossible to work whilst being jolted about. True to his word the contact knew another way, the network of tracks linking the fields of various farms, but after two miles in low gear the engine was overheating badly and the makeshift repairs on the hose gave out. Steam enveloped the van, preceded by a loud report as the hose burst and followed by curses from the driver’s cab.
They arrived at the airstrip tired and muddy, having crawled along a ditch to avoid a pair of sleepy militiamen. Any hopes of rest were dashed when Caroline and Patricia were informed that their target was to be attacked as soon as possible
Germany.
Black, oily smoke rose above the emergency landing field as Lt Col Arndeker turned onto finals and brought the speed down to 160knots. Without any effort on his half, the flaperons lowered in response to the lower speed setting and Arndeker peered ahead. There was a lot of activity on the grass to the left of the single runway. Fire trucks were clustered together near a burning aircraft but it was too far to yet see anything more.
A country lane, bordered by hedgerows, ran across the bottom of the landing field and Arndecker’s F-16 passed a few feet above it before touching down. He had seen the fresh scars in the grass as he had gotten closer to the field, pointing like a finger to the wreck, which he now identified as a German Tornado F3. It had apparently slid along on its belly for some distance before performing a ground loop, ending up on its back and facing the way it had come. Silver suited firemen on two of the fire trucks were pumping foam from nozzles mounted above the driver’s cabs, covering the aircraft in a white shroud. Arndeker swept past, getting a momentary glimpse of two bodies, covered from head to foot by blankets, laid out side by side next to one of the fire trucks.
Turning off the runway he followed the perimeter track around the field, passing the mobile control shack before turning off onto a prefabricated road made of perforated aluminium strips that led to an orchard. Amongst the trees were parked a dozen aircraft, which like him had run low on fuel and now awaited the field’s solitary fuel bowser.
Arndeker’s eyebrows rose as an airman guided him to a spot next to an aircraft wearing the Triple Crown insignia of Sweden. Having intervened in the Soviet attacks on Norway and the North Cape the Swedish government had back peddled somewhat, aligning itself with NATO ‘in principle’ but ducking the question of committing forces outside of its own borders. The presence of a JAS 39A Gripen indicated something not included in any of the briefings Arndeker had attended.
On shutting down, Arndeker clambered down the ladder an airman had put against his cockpit and took a look at the neighbours. The Gripen was the only Swedish aircraft there; the remainder consisted of another Luftwaffe Tornado, a pair of RAF Jaguars and eight F-16s in the liveries of Norway, the USA, Belgium and The Netherlands.
The airman, a Royal Air Force aircraftman, informed him that the bowser was refilling and that a NAAFI wagon would be coming around with tea and sandwiches. Thanking him he then headed for the cluster of men and women in flight gear sat beneath the Tornado.
None of the American’s was from Arndeker’s squadron but he knew them by name and introductions were made all round. The German’s were grim faced having witnessed the death of two of their squadron mates, and said little. He sat beside the pilot of the Gripen, a good looking blond with high cheekbones and striking blue eyes who introduced herself as Lojtnant Ulrika Jorgensen. Ulrika’s flight had been responsible for taking out the Red Air Forces AWAC cover far behind the Elbe, clearing the way for airborne drops. It was the first Arndeker had heard that NATO had taken offensive action, and he thanked her and her country for finally stepping beyond the border. Her response had been curious, laughing and telling him he had better make the most of it because the air force would as like as not be behind bars this time tomorrow. He was about to ask what she’d meant by that but the promised NAAFI arrived and there was a scramble to be at the head of the line. Over plastic cups of sweet tea and cheese sandwiches, which the RAF crews called ‘mouse meat sarnie’s’, they had all described their experiences of that morning. Arndeker congratulated Ulrika on the Il-76 and Mig-31 she had brought down that morning, bringing her score to three when added to a Flogger bagged on the day the Soviet’s had overflown her country to attack Norway.
Arndeker himself had brought down his fourteenth enemy aircraft and the thirteenth of this conflict. On being scrambled before dawn he had led his entire squadron, numbering just seven aircraft, against a Red Air Force regiment heading for the main highways from Antwerp. For the first time in two weeks they had taken to the air fully loaded with ordnance, courtesy of the newly arrived convoy from the States. Being able to carry more than just one AMRAAM per sortie had been a joy to the NATO pilots and an unwelcome shock to the red fliers who had become accustomed to their opponents increasingly limited offensive capabilities.
His F-16s had broken up the formations of strike aircraft before their escorts had intervened and from there on in it had become a fur ball. Arndeker’s wingman, a young woman from Idaho, had been on her second mission had mid-aired with a Mig-29. The two aircraft had exploded, the wreckage locked together in an obscene embrace as they’d fallen towards the German countryside. Arndeker had watched until they disappeared into low cloud but no parachutes had appeared.
His last AIM-9L had been a clear miss, defeated by a combination of his intended victims ECM suite and some damn fine flying. He’d lost contact with the rest of the squadron and was almost entirely defensive, loosing off snap shots at fleeting targets of opportunity until a Mig-29 had unwisely shown him its rear end, flying straight and level for just a little too long and offering a minimum
deflection shot. He had put a long burst of cannon into it, watching the shells explode in a line from the tip of its port wing to the wing root. The wing had folded up, sending the aircraft into a spin. Just before entering the low cloud that had swallowed his wingman an object shot clear of the crippled aircraft before blossoming into a parachute. Finally with his HUD warning him of a fuel state approaching critical and a pair of Mig-31s, also shy of air-air ordnance but hard on his tail, he’d dived for the ground somewhere north of Duisburg, losing them in the ground clutter.
Everyone there had similar tales to tell, but not in the tones of bravado, rather in a matter-of-fact manner that sounded almost bored.
All the aircrew in the orchard, with the exception of the Swedish flier, were showing the signs of fatigue, a weariness that ran as deep as the bones and permeated the nerves. It was the result of flying ever more sorties each day as losses reduced the numbers of men and women available to fly the missions. It was also through watching that band of colleagues who had been the core of the squadron, thin out or disappear altogether, leaving the survivors to wonder when it would be they who failed to come back.
By unspoken agreement the talk of combat and lost friends petered out, turning instead to peacetime flying, famous gaffs, non-fatal yet spectacular screw-ups and the like. For a time at least the war was pushed aside, replaced by the laughter the recounting of these tales and anecdotes caused.
The fuel truck returned, its own bowser now refilled and the small international tea party finished up the lukewarm beverage and the sandwiches that were curling up at the edges.
Arndeker was the last in line and the other aircraft had already departed by the time the fuel truck had given him enough to get back to his own field. He was alone in the orchard and the warmth of the other flier’s spirits had departed this place. There was eeriness about it now and he was eager to be gone. Fifteen minutes later he was airborne again and heading home at treetop height to avoid trouble.
Australia: Ian McLennan Park, Kembla: New South Wales.
Australia’s immensely long coastline had but eighty thousand full time and reserve personnel of the Australian Defence Force to guard it against invasion at the outbreak of war, but this had swollen to two hundred thousand men and women under arms. In addition they welcomed others to the task.
Japanese, Taiwanese and Singaporean personnel wore a French design behind their cap badges, a fleur-de-lis, signifying volunteers from Chinese occupied counties. These were in main service personnel who had escaped in order to fight on when their own countries surrendered to the People’s Republic of China. There was even a Moro commando brigade in training near Brisbane, its instructors were Australian SAS as a deal of suspicion existed between the available US instructors and the Muslim’s from Mindanao in the Philippines.
Two divisions of the US 2nd Army, plus air and sea assets, had arrived from evacuated South Korea and a further division from the USA, 5th Mechanised. Along with major units of the US Pacific Fleet this went a good way to having a credible defence force to face off the invasion force that was heading their way.
3rd Marine Expeditionary Force and the majority of the former USFJ army and air force units relocated to New Zealand from Japan.
There were no force relocations from Taiwan. All US units that had fought on the island had perished along with the Taiwanese armed forces on that last terrible day.
A very small component from the British Army was also present in Australia, albeit accidentally despite the current British Defence Minister’s attempts to spin it as largess.
Four British Mk2E Challenger main battle tanks of the 1RTR, Royal Tank Regiment, were sat in hull down positions on the high ground above the Princes Highway and Kembla Grange Racecourse, the temporary ‘home’ of the 5th Mechanised Division, to which the troop of British tanks, an infantry platoon of 3rd Battalion Royal Green Jackets and support troops were attached.
The division had the daunting task of defending a stretch of coastline from the port of Kembla, situated forty miles south of Sydney, to Bateman’s Bay, ninety miles to the south, and west as far as the northern edge of the city limits of Canberra, in all a mere seven hundred and twenty square miles.
Officially the British troops were part of the divisional reserve and therefore had no pre-prepared forward fighting positions.
Having been at Fort Hood on exercise ‘Commanche Lance’ at the outbreak of war the small British contingent known as unofficially as ‘The Queen Elizabeth’s Combat Team’ had embedded with their hosts, the 52nd Infantry, for a return to Europe via Atlantic convoy’s with 5th (US) Mechanised Division but the division had been turned around on reaching the docks in Texas and entrained again to be sent west as reinforcements for Australia.
‘Heck’, Captain Hector Sinclair Obediah Wantage-Ferdoux, RTR, Lt Tony McMarn, RGJ and Captain Danny King, their US liaison, walked together across the dusty and uneven hilltops west side of Ian McLennan Park, a bike scrambling and off-road dirt track area beside a football ground and small covered spectators stand, the home of the South Coast United Soccer Club.
In appearance the hill was spookily similar to that of an ancient Briton hill fort of the stone age, the camouflaged twenty first century armoured fighting vehicles whose barrels poked outwards at its crest somewhat at odds with that. However, as the Brits had dug in they had found nothing to excite viewers of the Discovery Channels ‘Ancient Aliens’ but plenty of evidence of landfill. The terraced sides engineered for stability rather than defence.
Both officers carried mess tins, mugs and ‘scoffing rods’, knife, fork and spoon clanking in one hand as they headed over to the covered football stand to join the breakfast queue.
The stand was the cookhouse and feeding area for the combat team, the changing rooms were the ‘barracks’ for the cooks and REME L.A.D, Light Aid Detachment, and the car park sported a covered workshop constructed of scaffolding with a ‘wriggly tin roof’, which means ‘corrugated metal sheeting’ to civilians.
“So we have a spare barrel and a bunch more rounds per tank?” Tony asked.
When the Australian Defence Force was looking to replace its ageing German Leopard 1s it had tested the contender’s main armament. The German Leopard 2s L44 main armament also ‘gunned’ the US M1A1 Abrahms, and an L44 was tested for comparison beside the British L30 tank gun. The rifled British gun could throw a HESH, shaped charge road, 8,000 metres, a full five miles, with great accuracy and twice the range of the smoothbore German gun. But accessibility to spares and upgrades from the other side of the Pacific as opposed to the other side of the planet was a factor in Australia’s choosing the American tank over the German and British MBTs. It also meant that in a magazine in Darwin there was sat 144 rounds of ammunition left over from that testing.
Heck’s troop of Challenger 2s had arrived in Australia with just their ‘Front Line loads’ of forty nine rounds per tank and the commander of 5th Mech, ‘Duke’ Thackery, had little use for the Brits other than as a forlorn hope and as casualty replacements as the Abrahms and Challengers ammunition was not compatible.
“In the big scheme of things we have thirty six reloads per vehicle, which is good for one engagement perhaps…still, it’s better than jack-all, isn’t it?” Heck responded.
“Not enough for General Thackery to change his plans. You are still a throw away quick reaction force to plug any penetrations.”
“Throw away?” Heck muttered aloud. “Penetrations?” he continued. “I am not sure I like the parallels with those of a ‘spent johnnie’.” he concluded.
Danny frowned.
“Pardon?”
“A used, prophylactic.” Tony informed him.
They joined the end of the queue, standing behind Sergeant Rebecca Hemmings and Master Sergeant Bart Kopak. Rebecca still wore a drawn look on her otherwise pretty features. Becoming a widow early on in the war was not a matter that she had fully come to terms with yet, but the ever hopeful Bart was there if and when she di
d.
Bart was ‘not on rations’ with the British unit anymore. They no longer warranted a liaison team, just Danny King the captain from the 11th Armoured Cavalry. The three officers were aware of the situation but none of them made any comment. Rebecca and Bart were good people.
The line shuffled on, closer to the heavy ‘ Hay Boxes’, the insulated metal containers for transporting cooked food to the troops. Such containers had once been lined with dried straw to retain the heat and as such the name ‘Hay Box’ had remained.
Eventually each officer was served and found a spot to sit together in the stands to eat.
A slice of fried bread, a fried sausage, a fried egg, two tinned tomatoes, half a dozen tinned mushrooms and a half ladle of baked beans.
Be it Chelsea Barracks or Camp Bastion, Catterick or Kembla, the high cholesterol breakfast was an even surer sign than a bugler sounding reveille that the British Army had started a new day.
Russia.
