The general's aide in the next room heard a jaunty tune being whistled from inside the general's office. That's strange, Sergey thought, the general has no visitors.
14:30 11 December [05:30 11 December GMT]
Southern Siberia, Russia.
The build-up was well under way now. Huge tracts of land had been rented from their owners, assurances made around repairs and reparations for any damage caused. Unexploded ordinance was a major concern and whilst one could never be one hundred per cent certain, the combination of laser guidance and military tracking would mean that every shell expended would be confirmed as a detonation or recorded for disposal later. Camps had grown up outside the zone. A combination of the people displaced and worldwide media, who, for the first time, would be given direct access to near-live feeds, the delay built in necessary both for assurance that any accident would not go out and to prevent the other side from gaining any tactical advantage using unofficial communications. Handheld and other personal devices would be prohibited.
General Gregori Stephonovich Ivanskiy, leaning over the map table, looked at his watch. It is time. He stood up and pulled on his jacket and went outside, ready to meet them. A procession of light military vehicles drew up before him. General Sam Colt and General Charles Beaconsfield climbed out of their respective vehicles, their doors held open by two Russian Colonels who had travelled with them from the air base. Ordinarily they would have travelled with their own troops, but this exercise was about cooperation and that had to start at the top.
They exchanged salutes first, then handshakes.
'Good journey?' Ivanskiy asked.
'Yes thanks.' Charlie replied brightly.
'Not bad, I had a little chop over the Atlantic, but otherwise OK.' Sam said, considerably understating the storm his military flight had gone through.
'Good, good. Come, we have much to discuss.' Ivanskiy waved them into the temporary command post; the proper one for the exercise was still being finished.
The room was a little darker than they had both expected, as their eyes adjusted, they could see the reason. The General's Hungarian Oak map table occupied a fair proportion of the available space in the war room. A topographical map of the area was projected onto the glass screen from below. Other details, such as real-time data of troop dispositions were projected from the ceiling. The result was quite stunning.
'This is the heart of the operation. All the real-time data is live and fed from the Doran Communications network we are operating.' Ivanskiy announced proudly.
Sam and Charlie had both heard of this. Neither had seen it in operation though. It was something that troubled the NATO alliance greatly. Professor Doran's communications breakthrough had had a huge impact on the telecommunications industry, with most manufacturers and operators licensing the technology, the rest likely to follow.
Ivanskiy noted their keen interest and decided to instruct them.
‘It is its military application which is most important to us.’ He began, ‘Unlike Cellular technology which relies upon a network of masts that pickup and relay the communications messages, the Doran technology actually creates its own, but in a viral, not cellular way. In practical terms this means that, every device acts as a relay for every other device. This provides many practical benefits. Two communications devices out of range of any others can communicate with each other directly. Add in another and all three can communicate, as, unlike radio, the third does not have to be in range of the first, as the second relays between them. Then, as soon as one of the devices comes in range of a regular cellular network, all of them immediately have access too. Thus, we get the benefits of both private and public networks together. The system is secure and the throughput of data truly astonishing. Any one device is able to handle over a thousand other devices communications simultaneously. With your agreement I suggest that each side has access to its own network and these displays.'
'That would be...’ Sam tried to find the words.
'Truly excellent.' Charlie finished for him.
'Good, that is settled then.' Ivanskiy clapped his hands together, 'A drink to toast perhaps?'
A waiting aide dispensed three vodkas. They threw them down in one and slammed the empty glasses back on the desk.
'You have more of these displays?' Sam asked, still somewhat shocked at the very generous offer made by his Russian counterpart.
'We have twelve available to us. Two will be kept for the moderators, four for each side to use how they see fit.' Gregori Stephonovich tapped on the table's display.
'What is that?' Sam asked, a split-second before Charlie.
They could clearly tell that it was displaying a military unit. Gregori Stephonovich zoomed in on it allowing them to make out the individuals. Each one was displayed in colour, most were green, some were yellow and one, well away from the others, was red.
'The colours’ Gregori Stephonovich began, 'indicate the relative health of each individual according to set parameters. Green obviously is good, the yellow will be where they are exerting themselves, this unit is helping in the construction, the Red, well there was a rather serious accident and one is in the infirmary. In this way, we can monitor the health of all our combat troops. When you zoom out the display colours the Unit according to the proportional health of the unit. Thus this one is Green and Yellow; you can change the sensitivity of the display according to your needs.'
'You mean that you have real-time data on the composition and health of each and every solider?' Charlie tried and failed to keep the awe out of his voice.
‘Actually,’ Gregori Stephonovich continued, 'it does much more than that.' Again, he tapped the display; it changed, this time showing non-infantry units. 'Here you can see the status of a regiment of tanks, here a brigade of artillery and over here a squadron of fighter aircraft. As with the infantry, you can zoom from an entire battlefront all the way down to individual pieces. The sensors are obviously different and monitor different things, such as fuel and munitions level. Also whether it can perform certain functions, for example; manoeuvre, target and shoot.' This last statement Gregori Stephonovich emphasized by bringing up a display of one of his tanks. He hit a symbol on the display and the Russian was automatically translated into English.
'Impressive, Gregori Stephonovich, truly impressive.' Sam observed.
'My staff has programmed some simulations into them, so that your officers can become familiar with the system.'
'Thank you Gregori Stephonovich that is most kind of you.' Charlie said.
'Good. I shall let you both get settled in. We shall meet again for breakfast.' Gregori Stephonovich gave them both another smart salute, which they returned. The two Colonels who had accompanied them from the airport appeared in the room to escort them to their quarters.
17:45 12 December [14:45 12 December GMT]
Kremlin, Moscow, Russia.
Sergey heard his boss, Bondarenko, slam the door to his private toilet several times. This evening it seems, it is going to be Rage, he observed. Sergey did not like his boss, not at all. The man was mean, ill tempered, self-aggrandising and vain. He had been appointed as his aide without ever meeting him. He could have shot himself in the foot to avoid this posting, but the General had ordered him to report for duty and he knew that he would have been bandaged and sent anyway. Now he could not foul-up to get himself transferred, as he might elsewhere, as he knew that the General would be likely to have him posted to Siberia on guard duty. No, I am stuck here. The one benefit, if you could call it that, was that Bondarenko's reputation went before him. As his aide, all he had to do was mention the General's name and others did his bidding, without question.
He had finished gathering the report on the search for Solomon and Natasha Bondarenko. There had been no sighting of either of them, nothing at all. This is not good; the Aide thought to himself, the General is already in a Rage. If I go in there without some news or someone else to blame it on, it will be me between a hammer an
d an anvil. He thought about it for a while. I can't make anything up, and I can't take the blame myself.... He picked up his phone and dialled the extension for the FSB, the Russian security service.
'This is Bondarenko's office. The General would like a report on how the search for Solomon and Natasha Bondarenko is going. No, he would like a personal briefing tonight.' There, he thought to himself, let someone else be the bearer of bad news and feel the fury of the General's anger. He doubted that the section chief would come personally; electing instead to send his aide as there was no good news to deliver.
Bondarenko slumped down in his seat. The news from the Sunarr had not been what he wanted to hear, they were going to delay the plan at least another week. The reason being to allow for the majority of American and British troops to join up with the Russians in the exercise area. That will put them nicely out of harm’s way, but even so.... Bondarenko didn't like the delay, he wanted action now. He was tired of waiting, so very tired. What made it worse was that not only was it a good idea, but also, he had been informed of their decision, not consulted. This sat unwell with the General; he liked giving orders not receiving them. I have to bide my time though and stick to the plan. His mind wandered to thinking about his daughter and where she might be.
15:48 12 December [14:48 12 December GMT]
Stazione Termini, Rome, Italy.
The train pulled smoothly into the station, only its final stop jolting Solomon gently awake. She looked around, momentarily unsure as to where she was. She looked out of the window, Roma, she read, we have made it to Rome!
'Natasha. Natasha dear, it's time to wake up.' Solomon gently shook her daughter awake, allowing her time to realise where she was before leading her by the hand off the train. The station, a huge sprawling affair with many bars, shops and restaurants offered itself to them like a city within a city. They proceeded into the main concourse and found the information boards. The large displays detailing all the arrivals and scheduled departures. The next train for Milan didn't depart for another hour so Solomon thought about a late lunch.
She opted for a takeaway place rather than a restaurant, the latter being more conspicuous. The takeaway was bustling, the queue more a crowd, less an organised set of lines. As Solomon stood there, her eye was drawn to a notice board, behind the serving counter and to the left of it. She pulled her eyes away and focused on the menu, again her eyes drawn back to the notice board. Her mind was troubling her now. There was something about that notice board, something not right. Her eyes finally fell on the bottom of the board, close to the counter. There was a small poster. It was one of those Alert posters and on it were two photos in black and white. They were unmistakably her and Natasha. The rest of the writing she could not decipher, it was too far away. I must have it, I must know what it says, she thought desperately to herself. She leaned down to whisper in her daughter's ear. Natasha nodded readily and then disappeared, bobbing through the crowd waiting to be served. Natasha reached the other end of the counter and squeezed to the front. She placed Sheepy on the counter and slowly pushed the toy sheep away from her. Within a minute, it had fallen over the other side of the counter. Natasha let out a child's upset scream, the kind that attracts instant attention. It worked, everyone, including the staff looked in the direction of the scream. Solomon leaned on the counter, rocked forward and grabbed the poster. As she rocked back and stood upright, she shoved the poster in her blouse out of sight. A staff member scooped the toy sheep up from where it had fallen and gave it back to a grizzling little child, who smiled and made her way back through the crowd. Solomon smiled at the person serving her and ordered two meals.
04:52 12 December [01:52 12 December GMT]
Southern Siberia, Russia.
Charlie Beaconsfield is an “early bird”, in an organisation of early birds this means that he is usually up well before five in the morning. This morning being no exception, he was up around four-thirty and now half way through his morning jog. There is something truly wonderful about this time in the morning, the colour of the light, as it plays through the treetops, the early morning song of birds, the sweet crisp smell of the air, all truly wonderful, he thought to himself as he pounded his way through the forest.
Charlie was brought away from his thoughts as he became aware of footsteps behind him, they had fallen into pace with his and now were gaining on him slowly; he looked out the corner of his left eye and saw that the Hammer was drawing up alongside. Neither of them broke the no talking etiquette of the morning jog, it’s a time for gaining focus on one’s self, of allowing oneself to return to a more basic animal, one that hunts. No, the morning jog is definitely something for one’s soul; it can be shared, but not discussed.
They arrived back at the barracks after several miles of solitude, refreshed and eager for breakfast. They walked into the Russian mess with a mixture of hunger and trepidation, unsure as to what their Russian hosts would have on offer. They were not disappointed; the Russians had laid on their usual breakfast fare, but had also thoughtfully employed the services of an international catering firm. The result was a true gastronomic delight, along with the Russian breakfast dishes of breads, cheeses, hams and sausages there were also cereals, pancakes, bacon, maple syrup and a full English breakfast menu. The two generals queued with other officers and helped themselves to a large plateful mixing British, American and Russian fare to show solidarity.
They took their seats either side of Gregori Stephonovich and tucked into their breakfasts. Charlie and the Hammer started to relax, just a little, and looked forward to enjoying the rest of the build-up to the exercise for what it should be, professional soldiers discussing tactics, not politics.
'You both slept well, da?' Gregori Stephonovich inquired.
'Yes very well, thank you.' Charlie replied.
'We took the opportunity yesterday to see how our men are settling in. I guess I should say how the American and British troops are settling in, seeing how we are going to be combining forces.' Sam added.
'I was thinking about that,’ Gregori Stephonovich began, 'tell me how well do both of you trust your officers?'
It was an odd question they thought, not something usually asked amongst military men. They waited for the Russian to continue.
'The reason I ask,’ Gregori Stephonovich continued, 'is that I wonder if it would be better if we were not directly involved.'
'What exactly are you suggesting?' Sam asked, failing to keep the suspicion out of his voice.
Gregori Stephonovich placed down his knife and fork. 'It seems to me that we have the opportunity here to do more than the usual exercise. We, the three of us, could decide the parameters of the exercise. What the Blue team's objective is and what the Red team's objective is. Neither side shall know the other's objective, except what they are able to deduce militarily. Once the exercise begins, we shall be observers and moderators only. Our men, whom we have trained well, will execute their own battle plans to meet their objectives. Also, we shall not know what those battle plans are, we shall have to see what unfolds.'
'Isn't that a little dangerous?' Charlie observed, after all it goes against military doctrine, he thought.
'Yes it is.' Gregori Stephonovich replied. 'However, the communications networks we have will mean that both teams will be in real-time control of their forces and as moderators we will have constant monitoring of the exercise as well as direct control, if necessary.'
'What's the up side?' Sam asked, he knew very well what it would be, but wanted to make sure that they all had the same view and were agreed.
'Well instead of it just being an exercise of how well our men are trained and can operate their equipment, we would be testing the training and experience of our senior officers in the execution of war. It is an old adage that plans don't survive the first engagement. This would be the ultimate test of our war doctrine, our strategies and our tactics.'
'Do you think you can sell this up the chain?' Charlie inquired.
'Da, I do. We have played war games on our own for far too long. It is time to see how they work in practice.'
'What do you think Sam?' Charlie asked.
'I think the President will do a shit unless this is presented properly.' Sam replied. 'Tell me, Gregori Stephonovich would you mind if this was presented as an American plan?'
'Nyet, of course not. It only occurred to me this morning and I have mentioned it to no one other than yourselves'
'Great. That will make it much easier. I will present this to the Joint Chiefs and the President as an American initiative, one that I will say the Russians are unlikely to agree to anyway. That way they are more likely to give it their backing, in anticipation that it won't happen anyway.'
'You American's are a funny lot. You have to present something as likely to fail to gain support. Never in Russia.' Gregori Stephonovich observed.
'Sometimes, yes. Especially when you are dealing with Politicians and the senior ranks.'
'When will you know?' Gregori Stephonovich asked.
'This afternoon.'
'So soon?'
'If this is going to work it has to be quick, the more to look part of last minute negotiations.'
16:07 12 December [15:07 12 December GMT]
Stazione Termini, Rome, Italy.
Solomon had read the poster now three times. The news was not good. She read it again, slowly trying to absorb the full impact of it.
Wanted for Murder. Solomon Bondarenko. Solomon Bondarenko, twenty-five, one hundred and seventy five centimetres, fifty-one kilograms, black hair, brown eyes, believed to be travelling with her daughter Natasha, nine, one hundred and twenty five centimetres, thirty-one kilograms, black hair, and blue eyes. Last seen leaving their St. Petersburg home on 27 October. Believed to be travelling to Switzerland. Wanted in connection with the death of Professor Andreiv Stephanovich Doran on 26 October. Although not considered dangerous, caution is advised. Contact local authorities on any information.
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