Shalenko scowled. One thing they hadn’t anticipated had been the Americans taking over security duties for the Falklands; they had hoped that the British would either be challenged by the Argentines, forcing them into a desperate and futile struggle against superior forces, or pull out their task force and allow the Argentines to take over the Falklands without a fight. The Americans had told the Argentines flatly that the Falklands were under their protection and any attempt to alter the balance of power would be severely punished. The presence of a large American carrier nearby added teeth to the threat; the Argentines had reluctantly backed off, for the time being.
“Wishful thinking,” he said, dismissing the hope. “If they know what we’re planning, they will save everything for the most dangerous part of any landing operation, the moment when the troops are being unloaded. Once they are certain that we are not bluffing, they will throw everything they have into the battle, where it will be destroyed, terminating the RAF once and for all. Our air supremacy will ensure that the landing zones remain secure, and then we will probe up towards London. At some point, we will meet the remainder of the British Army…and crush it.”
He had given serious thought to landing elsewhere; Rybak put his thoughts into words. “Should we not attempt to avoid a major battle until we have a large force on the ground?”
“I thought about that,” Shalenko admitted. The plan had been hashed over, time and time again, stripped out as many of the variables as possible. There would be surprises – no campaign was ever fought without surprises – but he hoped that most of them would be limited. “The problem is that we have to crush the British Army; the British will have had time to burn records and destroy bases and generally make it impossible for us to be sure who has military experience, or not. If we can kill them all, or at least catch them quickly, then we won’t have to worry about an insurgency later.”
Rybak smiled coldly. The different Russian services had watched the American struggles in Iraq and later Iran with the greatest of interest, leaning different lessons for different services. The army had learned about tanks that could be used for fighting insurgents, the navy had learned about cruise missiles, the air force had learned about heavy bombing…and the FSB had learned how much trouble former soldiers could cause. The remaining soldiers in Europe, surrendered or captured, would be sent to Siberia; let them work there or die.
Shalenko followed his thoughts. Europe was being quietly purged of elements the Russians disliked, or openly loathed, a long list ranging from former right-wing and left-wing leaders, to media reporters. Some were being given offers they couldn’t refuse – work for the Russians or go to Siberia, or a work gang, or meet a bullet in the back of their heads – or were simply eliminated to terminate whatever problems they might have posed. The population at large was unaware of the tectonic shifts occurring under their feet; the absence of most media channels – replaced with a bland diet of soaps and television shows – hid much from their eyes…and even the news from America was mainly sensationalist. Europeans saw the talking heads on CNN and FOX and GNN and knew that America had abandoned them; many of them would seek ways to please the Russians, rather than opposing them.
And the streets were safe. The Russians had made it clear what had happened to the prisoners who had fallen into their hands, including the death sentence for the dangerous criminals. Many who had been allowed to roam free discovered that the Russians were watching for them; they had the records from Interpol and Europol and used them mercilessly, arresting and executing known serious criminals. Crime was lower than it had ever been…and that too was popular. As long as serious incidents could be kept down…
“Operation Morskoi Lev,” Nekrasov said, drawing his attention back to the matter at hand. His brief moment of distraction made Rybak smile; the FSB officer understood nothing of the true art of war. “General; how are the preparations for the invasion?”
The use of his rank was a quiet warning; Nekrasov wanted to talk to the General, not to the friend. “The preparations proceed apace,” Shalenko said, calmly. “We have twelve divisions prepared for the crossing, using mainly captured European shipping and some of our own ships that we used in Denmark, all based at the cleared ports here. The British have launched several attempts to disrupt the process, but we have enough radars and missile launchers around the ports to make such attempts costly. All, but one, of the aircraft involved in the final attack were wiped out.”
His hand traced the map. “Colonel Aliyev and his men will be landed first, here,” he said, tapping a location on the map near Dover. “We don’t anticipate that the British will leave the port in a useable condition, hence the pre-prepared jetties that we copied from the D-Day invasion years ago; they will be moved over to secured beaches once we have cleared them of mines and other surprises, and then the heavy units will be landed.”
He spoke quickly as he outlined the other elements of the plan. “We have over five hundred bombers in position, one hundred of them under the command of Admiral Daniel Sulkin and tasked to destroy the remainder of the Royal Navy’s fleet, should it attempt to engage our forces on the surface. Admiral Wilkinson is still ten days away from Britain and in any case flew off his aircraft a week ago; we do not feel that he will attempt to interfere…and if he does, we have the capability to destroy his fleet. The main British naval threat will come from submarines; to counter we have brought along our own submarines and ASW craft, and mines. It may be costly, as they will do what the Taiwanese did, years ago, and concentrate on the transports, but we will land a large force.
“The remaining bombers have their own targets,” he concluded. “We have been chipping away at the British transport network; commandos inserted on the ground will be tasked with directing some of the bombers onto British reinforcements and other targets of opportunity, while others will blast British targets we have left alone to lull them into a false sense of security. Once we have total air superiority, we will be able to expand our control and advance towards London for the final battle.”
“There is a British civilian population in Dover,” Rybak said, needling him. There was a mischievous tone in his voice, quietly taking a verbal sally at Shalenko; the FSB and the Russian Army would never be friends. The secret to controlling Russia was to ensure that the FSB and the Army were used to keep the other in check permanently; President Nekrasov was a master of the art. “How do you intend to handle it?”
“The intelligence reports claim that the British have evacuated most of their citizens from the area,” Shalenko answered. “They are not going to be a problem, although we may have to burn Dover rather than take the time to lay siege or accept the death toll involved in storming the city. Once we take London, your forces can fan out and secure the remainder of the country; some of my planners believe that the British will keep evacuating people to Ireland as long as they can, and then get them to America. They have some additional shipping, although less each trip; we’re putting pressure on some of the shipping lines to close their operations with Britain.”
Nekrasov nodded curtly; the Russians had made it clear that the seas around Europe were a war zone and any shipping that went in without permission did so at serious risk of being sunk without warning. The United Nations had tried to challenge it, but the Americans weren’t willing to interfere, and the Turks had led a chorus of African nations that felt Europe deserved everything that was coming to it. In the long term, the Turks would start wondering what the Russians might have in mind for them, but for a few more years, they would be neutral in Russia’s favour. The Japanese had protested the Russian declaration of a free-fire war zone, but they were in no position to press the issue; like the Americans, they were wrapped up in Korea and had their interests in China. A very quiet agreement had been proposed; the Russians would say nothing about Japanese plans to guarantee safe zones in China – occupation in all, but name – if the Japanese didn’t press the issue of the sea-lanes.
“Which br
ings us to the final conclusion,” Nekrasov said. He smiled tiredly down at his two generals. Shalenko knew what he was about to ask before he asked the question; they had tried hard to answer it. “Can the operation succeed?”
Shalenko weighed all of the factors in his mind a final time. “The operation can succeed,” he said, and meant it. The entire plan had been wargamed several times, looking for every possible variable and unknown factor, giving the British far more firepower than they could possibly have, just to be sure that nothing was overlooked. The only real danger was tactical nuclear weapons, and the Russians had made that issue clear to the British Ambassador in Washington; the use of tactical nukes would be responded to with strategic weapons against British cities. It was the only communication that they had had with the British; they had refused to be ‘reasonable’ about the future. “The losses may be higher than we predict, but the operation can succeed.”
Nekrasov nodded once. It dawned on Shalenko that the President was concerned about the final step in the campaign, the final stage of the conquest of Europe. A failure could dispel the newfound impression of Russian soldiers as invincible; it could lead to resistance rising up right across Europe and being brutally crushed…if it could be crushed. The Poles had a long history of rebellions against occupying powers…and while the European Union had helpfully managed to restrict the number of guns in civilian hands, there were still Polish soldiers out there, with Polish criminals armed with illegal weapons. A failure could be disastrous.
Operation Morskoi Lev would not fail.
Nekrasov steepled his fingers. “General Shalenko – Alex – I hereby grant you permission to proceed with Operation Morskoi Lev at the earliest possible moment,” he said. Shalenko understood; when Nekrasov delegated, he delegated all the way. Shalenko was the man on the spot, the one with the understanding of what was happening that no one, even Nekrasov, could grasp back in Moscow. “Launch the invasion of Great Britain.”
Chapter Forty-Six: Operation Morskoi Lev, Take One
The hour has come; kill the Hun.
Winston Churchill (planned speech if Germany invaded Britain, 1940)
Battlezone, English Channel
“I think that this is it,” the coordinator said. Langford peered over her shoulder as the radar screen began to fill up with detailed information; there were over a thousand aircraft rising into the air over Europe, many of them staggering under the weight of heavy bomb loads. The two AWACS that the Americans had loaned, added to the two that the British had deployed on their own, were picking apart the Russian formation. “That’s an order of magnitude larger than any previous raid.”
Langford nodded grimly. The Russians had worked the RAF over pretty hard; unlike Hitler, they had known beforehand that the key to actually winning was air supremacy, if not complete air dominance. They had been able to rotate their pilots through the war zone; Langford and his people hadn’t had anything like the same luxury. Their pilots were exhausted; over the last week, they had lost several planes a day, including some of their most modern aircraft.
The American supplies had helped, but they hadn’t been enough; the air bridge between Britain and America had been thin and the Russians had broken it more than once. The Americans had been careful to avoid something that would directly threaten the Russians; Langford would have given anything for the 8th Air Force or another American formation just to give the RAF a breather, but that was impossible. The Russians had ground down the RAF…and now they would be coming to finish the job.
“Send the alert down the chain,” he ordered. The officers on the ground could pull downloads from the AWACS, but they would need to have the formal warning, just to put all of the emergency plans into operation. “Tell them that I am declaring a formal Cromwell Alert status and that they are to respond and report their positions.”
“Yes, sir,” the operator said. She paused. “Major Yuppie is calling you on the secure line.”
Langford took the handset. “Major,” he said. “I take it that you are seeing what we’re seeing?”
“Of course,” Erica said. There was a hint of relief in her voice; the waiting, at least, was over. “Sir, I know that we have discussed this before, but…”
Langford shook his head. “No,” he said. She couldn’t see him, of course; there hadn’t been the time to create a proper video link for the field headquarters. “One way or the other, I have to make the stand with the army.”
Erica snorted, but she didn’t press the issue any further. She had wanted him to remain in the CJHQ, exercising command from well behind the lines, so that he could escape with the evacuation ships if it was necessary. Langford had put his foot down; the government-in-exile would be far better operated by a politician, if it came to that. The Ambassador and Foreign Secretary would take the oath as Prime Minister in front of the King; the Royal Family themselves were in Canada. Langford hated the thought of them running out on the country, but again…they couldn’t be allowed to fall into Russian hands. The Pope had fallen into Russian hands and he now broadcast from the remains of the Vatican, praising the Russians in one breath and demanding a new crusade against the Muslims in a second. He hated to think what could happen if he fell into enemy hands; he had already determined that whatever happened, he would never allow himself to be taken alive.
“Yes, sir,” she said, finally. Langford was watching the display; the force of Russian fighters was starting to advance, zooming ahead of the bombers and heavy transports that had to be carrying parachutists and other surprises. The British had learned that the Russians loved paratrooper assaults; every airport in the entire south-east of England, and most of the other airports in the country, had been rigged with unpleasant surprises. They were short on men, materials, and many other things, but they weren’t out of tricks yet. “The Royal Navy is preparing to move in and reach engagement range.”
Langford scowled. He hadn’t liked that part of the plan; it would cost them, heavily, even if it worked. The Americans hadn’t been able to supply many cruise missiles to replace the ones that had been fired off during the early days of the war; the remaining fifteen surface combatants of the Royal Navy in home waters would be seriously disadvantaged, the more so because he could spare them no air cover. They would be operating at the limits of their range…and as for the ships from the Falklands, it would still be a week before they were in range. He wasn’t convinced that they could do anything, anyway; the Russian control of the air would be absolute by that time.
“Good,” he said finally. The submarines had been tasked with interdicting the Russian transports, something that would be difficult with the Royal Navy so badly overstretched and down to eight nuclear submarines. There were two more with Admiral Wilkinson, but they couldn’t reach Britain in time to help. The Royal Navy, he suspected, was about to fight its last battle. “And the RAF?”
“Fighters are scrambling now,” Erica said. “Operation Mousetrap has been activated and the American weapons are in place. If we can use it, we might just have a chance to limit the number of bombs and commandos dropped on our soil.”
Langford tried hard to feel optimistic. They’d caught and captured several dozen Russians as they had attempted to launch more terrorist attacks, or killed others who refused to surrender, but there had been brutal fire-fights breaking out all along the defence line as Russian commandos had been slipped onto the shore and sent to wreak havoc and force the soldiers to become nervous in their trenches. No one knew how many Russians might have successfully made it into Britain undetected; a handful had escaped one of the refugee camps, having managed to sneak onboard a refugee ship.
“Good,” he said again. What else could he have said? The pattern on the display was becoming more and more ominous all the time; the Russian fighters were streaking forward, hoping to force the RAF into a decisive battle. “And the evacuation?”
It had seemed as if everyone in Britain had wanted to flee the Russians; after CNN had broadcast some of
the reports from occupied Europe, it was hard to blame them. The ports had been crammed with people wanting to flee, to get away somewhere, anywhere; there had even been more rioting as the fate of European Muslims under the Russians became clear. Langford had had to quell some of the riots with extreme force and ignore others; the only priority was to fight the final battle. If they could smash the Russian Army when it landed…
“The personnel marked for evacuation have been dispatched to the ports,” Erica assured him. They had given priority to the relatives of serving soldiers and policemen; the police, in particular, had done wonderful work. There was something of the old determination and ethos left in them after all; Langford only wished that it hadn’t taken a war and a threatened invasion to bring it to the fore. A handful of technical experts had been dispatched as well; the Americans had been insistent, once they had realised that the Russians were starting the long process of renovating the European technical base and using it for their own benefit. “Everything will be handled smoothly.”
“I hope you’re right,” Langford said. The American satellite data was buzzing up new warnings; the Russian transport fleet had set out to sea and Russian missiles were being launched towards targets on the ground. “I’ll see you again soon.”
The Fall of Night Page 46
