by Andy Farman
Constantine did not look back as he made for the cover of Alves wood, he just put his head down and ran as fast as he could, determined to get as much distance between himself and the house before the men realised he had gone, or shouted a challenge if they did see him. Pulling his mobile from his pocket he keyed in 999 as he ran, and then held it to his ear but heard no dialling tone, just a single beep as it announced that the battery was flat, and switched itself off. He would have cursed aloud but instead he berated himself silently for not checking it when he’d taken it from the policeman’s pocket.
The edge of the wood was looming close when he heard the cracks of high velocity rounds passing, snow was being kicked up where the rounds landed twelve feet to his right, and bark flew off the trunks of trees well above head height.
Constantine dodged to the left, slipped and fell painfully, his full weight landing on his thigh, with gritted teeth he rolled into a slight depression in the ground, moving awkwardly with his injured limb. His leg throbbed painfully as he raised his head to look back toward the house, the firing had stopped as soon as he had gone down, and then it occurred to him that the shots had been aimed wide, they apparently still wanted him alive.
Two men were coming after him across the field, well-spaced so as to flank him if he went to ground, and the van appeared in the lane, skidding and sliding on the icy surface as it headed along the lane towards the far edge of the wood. Constantine knew far too much to allow himself to be taken, and he glanced towards the wood, seeking the best escape route available. Forty feet away lay the woods, between himself and the trees was strung a four-foot high barbed wire fence and a ditch that ran just beyond that. Turning back toward the two approaching men he took careful aim at the man on the left, the closest at about 200 yards. The MP-5A3 that he carried, is a short barrelled weapon meant for close quarters work, and the round he squeezed off did nothing more than to make both men drop to the frozen surface of the field. During the weapon handling sessions the two policemen had been very critical of the ammunition that the police service were given, the BAE produced, 75 grain rounds wouldn’t penetrate clothing at 100m, let alone stop the target from firing back with something more potent. However the aim on this occasion was to buy time, even if trimming the odds would have been a bonus.
Pushing himself up the moment the pair dropped from sight, he broke into a hobbling run, and there was an immediate shout from behind him followed by a resumption of the firing. Constantine ignored the rounds that cracked past as he forced all thought of pain from his mind, willing his leg to work normally as he approached the barbed wire fence like a steeple chaser, legs pounding; he had Pell’s MP-5 held high in his right hand and leapt.
The two men pursuing him saw the top strand catch their quarry below the knee and the sharp barbs snagged the bottom of the coat he wore. Constantine was tumbled head over heels to hang head down, suspended above the ditch by the coat that was caught in the wire, and the MP-5 fell from his grasp into the icy water of the ditch. He kicked and struggled to free himself, but the coat was firmly entangled on the wire, leaving him no option but to rip open the front of the coat, the buttons springing free as the thread that held them parted. He fell the rest of the way into the stream with a splash, and came up gasping with the shock of the cold water. The water made him aware of a deep gash along his calf, gouged by the barbs, but he had no time to dwell on it. Plunging his hands back into the water he rooted around furiously until his fingers found the carbine, and then he scrambled from the ditch, his heart pounding. He wondered when they would be close enough to feel confident in shooting at his legs, avoiding the danger of causing an immediately fatal wound. The answer came moments later when something tugged at the fabric of his wet trousers, and he dived to the side and rolled, turning to face the way he had come. The nearest man was kneeling; the AKM in the aim, waiting for a safe shot at an exposed limb, his partner was a hundred meters to Constantine’s right, still going for the flanking move.
Constantine aimed and fired at the kneeling man, seeing the round strike wide of the target. In reply the AKM-74 fired, but missing quite deliberately, although not by very much, the shooter seeking to pin Constantine in place, but the firer was still kneeling when he should have dropped prone, and Constantine adjusted his aim. He saw the 9mm round strike, and followed through with another shot, which also scored and the man fell on his side.
As he grinned with savage satisfaction he heard the creaking on the barbed wire and fence posts, the second man had reached the fence and was climbing over somewhere to his right, masked by the undergrowth. Constantine got to his feet, the first man was still down, doubled over and gasping with pain. He ran into the wood; he knew that there was a track at the far end and just behind that was a cutting that the Inverness line ran through. He recalled from their exercises with the paintball guns that there was a second bridge, this one for cattle to move between a local farm and the fields. There was a padlock and chain on the gates at either end of the bridge, so if he could reach it then the van driver would have to turn around on the narrow track to go around if he intended cutting him off, if he hadn’t already achieved that feat. Branches whipped at his face as he ran, fallen branches and thick brambles tried to trip him but he pressed on. After four or five minutes of hard running his breath was coming painfully, then he saw the track through the trees and despite the fire in his chest he put on a burst of speed. Skidding to a halt at the edge of the wood he listened, his own breathing was loud and fogging the cold air but he could hear or see nothing of the van, but the bridge was in sight, a hundred or so paces to the left.
Noises inside the wood alerted him to the steady approached of the second gunman, and he broke cover, running for the bridge, his footfalls muffled but his feet hampered by the virgin snow covering the track. In the distance he heard the sound of the Inverness express trains’ two-tone air horn, and the noise spurred him on. Behind him the gunman crashed through the bushes onto the track, caught sight of the running figure making for the bridge and set off in pursuit. Constantine reached the gate barring the way to stray cattle and unauthorised cars and climbed over, dropping to the other side. The bridge arched over the railway cutting, and Constantine’s legs protested as he ran up the slope, casting a glance over his shoulder at his pursuer; damn he was so close! Constantine stopped, raised the MP-5 and aimed just ahead of the running gunman, squeezing the trigger when he was certain he was aiming off the correct amount. The ‘dead-man’s-click’ is so called for those careless souls who forget to count their rounds, it is the sound that is heard when there is an empty chamber at the moment when you really could have done with another live round sitting in there, it is often the last sound the luckless mathematician hears. He froze for a split second and then cocked the weapon again, aimed and squeezed but received the same metallic click. His spare magazines were in the pockets of the coat hanging from the fence at the other side of the wood, so he turned and ran. His pursuer had clearly heard both clicks and knew what it meant, either a stoppage of some kind or an empty magazine, he ran even faster, denying Constantine the opportunity to stop and reload, should he have other magazines about his person.
On reaching the top of the slope, midway across the bridge, Constantine slid to a halt, feeling despair fill him, for at the far end sat the builders van, and its driver was lying to the side of the track, aiming straight at him.
“Drop the weapon Major…it’s no use to you now except as a club.” The man behind him was hardly breathing heavily at all as he called to Bedonavich.
“It was a good try, but it is over now…time is short Major, and we have much to speak of…and I do assure you that you will speak. So put your hands behind your head and stay perfectly still until I get to you!”
Constantine was panting with the exertion, and looking around desperately for some assistance, or a solution. The van driver was still covering him as the second man climbed over the gate, there was no one else around to help him, not
hing he could use…and then a light shining from along the track caught his eye, and he had his solution after all. Leaping for the side of the bridge, he was pulling himself up onto the top of the bridge parapet when the van driver fired, hitting his lower right leg, shattering the bone and throwing him off balance, but it didn’t matter anymore thought Constantine to himself as he rolled his body towards the edge. The second man was shouting desperately as he rushed forward, with arms outstretched, his fingertips making contact with the wet fabric of Bedonavich’s jacket, and then the major was gone, rolling off into space to fall into the path of the Inverness express.
Indian Ocean, 25miles south Java Trench: Same time.
Two hundred and sixty-four miles due east of Christmas Island, the Royal Australian Navy, Collins class attack submarine Hooper was surfaced and hove to. Australia bought the licence to build the very capable, Swedish designed diesel boat but then the politicians did what they are best at, risking their own young men’s lives from the safety of comfortable offices. They built cheap, aiming unerringly for second best and accepting third. The boats propeller was noisy, as was her engine plant, and her systems were all out of date. The first boat, SSG 73, HMAS Collins, was completed in 1996 but outfitted with early 1980’s technology, including her vital sonars. It was political embarrassment rather than bruised national pride that funded the drive to put things right, in international war games it was said the Collins boats could be heard even before they’d cleared port. The government made much of its decision to spend a billion Australian dollars in a program to put things right, but kept silent over the fact that it would be spread over ten years.
As well as being noisy, the diesel plants were unreliable, as were the generators that were meant to charge the batteries on which the boat was totally reliant upon whilst dived below snorkel depth.
HMAS Hooper was sat on the surface because seals had failed in her snorkel, and air wasn’t getting to her diesels in sufficient quantity. Her generator in turn, was not producing enough current to charge the batteries, so here they were, just the other side of the Java Trench from a hot war zone with the engineering officer putting the damn thing back together after replacing the perished seals.
All non-essential machinery was shut down during the repair process and a silent regime enforced while the submarine sat on the surface. The sonar operators used their outdated equipment with skill, listening on passive systems for any hint of a threat, and the lookouts scanned the horizon with night viewing aids.
All credit to the men who crewed her; they persevered with the tool provided to them by penny-pinching bureaucrats, in the defence of their country.
Only marine life was out there, and no radars were detected by the time she was ready to get underway once more, two hours before dawn.
“Are you sure that bluddy dunny is going to hold together Tommo?”
The engineer eased his aching back and looked up at the snorkel.
“It’s not a bad design skipper, but the seals were made for arctic waters not the tropics, so they give out quicker.” He replied as he climbed down from his hazardous perch, back to the safety of the bridge. The powers that be knew of the problems with the seals, but they had bought in bulk at the start of the Oboe class replacement project, and were not inclined to dump the items for tropical ones whilst stocks remained. In peacetime it hardly mattered that they required replacement twice as quickly, but they were at war now and it mattered a hell of a lot.
The skipper clapped him on the back and ushered him below.
“Well done anyway, go and get some kip.”
Once the engineer had disappeared the captain took a look around; checking for any overlooked item that would rattle once they were dived. His mood was bad enough as it was, if they had to come straight back up to retrieve a spanner or the like, it would be absolutely foul.
Turning to his number one he nodded.
“Provided all this work wasn’t a waste of time, we’ll do a static dive with the snorkel raised; let’s not tempt fate, eh?”
“She should be okay sir; Tommo’s a good ‘un.”
“Start main engines and raise the snorkel.”
After the quiet of the past hours the big diesel sounded horrendously loud to ears grown accustomed to the silence, even through the soundproofing. After five minutes they had confirmation that unrestricted airflow was reaching the engine and the generator was feeding charge to the batteries
“Officer of the Watch, dive the boat…clear the bridge, look-outs below.”
“Aye, aye skipper.” The conning tower emptied of the bridge party and the noise of voices and human movement returned to the interior of the vessel.
“Upper hatch shut, both clips on.”
“Open main vents and Kingston’s.”
“Main vents open…Kingston’s open, sir.”
“Forty-five feet, watch that bubble Cox’n, keep the trim.”
“Aye, aye skipper…setting depth at forty five feet.”
“Raise the ESM.”
“Aye sir…ESM raised.”
With no forward motion to play over the diving planes, the Cox’n had to work hard not to let the vessel slide back, as physics dictated that the heavier stern with its fuel bunkers and engine should dominate the vessel with buoyancy diminishing. The main vents remained open long enough to ensure the correct degree of negative buoyancy, and the Indian Ocean covered the casing and then the sail. Skilfully he kept the backward slide above 10 degrees, re-establishing trim at the required depth.
“Forty-five feet, sir.”
“Well done Cox’n.”
After ten minutes with only favourable reports from the engine room, the captain was satisfied and gave the nod to the officer of the watch.
“Group up…slow ahead main engine.”
“Group up sir…telegraph at slow ahead, sir.”
The captain gave his officer a quick smile.
“Nicely done young man…nicely done everyone,” expanding his praise to all concerned, and his mood much restored by the display of good seamanship.
“It’s not the easiest drill in the book by a long shot…I’m going to get my head down for a bit, lieutenant, wake me if anything comes up?”
“Yes, sir.”
His ships ability to perform well in a conflict that well might arrive in Australian waters eventually was of deep concern to him. Only two of his vessels class had so far been upgraded, something that should never had been necessary in the first place.
Japanese, Taiwanese, Singaporean and now US warships were adding to the fighting power of the Australian, and tiny New Zealand fleets. American troops were in Australia preparing to defend it along with their own army and troops that had escaped by boat from overrun countries. There were even a few Brit tanks and infantry; God knows how they got there. What Australia needed now was time, time to prepare for the coming storm that threatened.
He was a good captain with a good crew, but he was relieved that their modified and upgraded sister ships would be more likely to encounter the enemy, north of New Guinea in the Pacific Ocean, than they were, way out here.
16 miles south of Magdeburg: Same time.
When the Spetznaz` attacks on headquarters units had begun the night before, elements of the 155th Separate Armoured Brigade of the Mississippi National Guard had been in the later throes of relieving the Belgian 2nd/4th Lansiers and the Grenadiers of Prins Boudewijn’s Carbinier Regiment. A petrol tanker with its accelerator pedal wedged down had been rammed into a large corrugated metal and brick barn complex a quarter mile from the gun lines of the 114th Artillery. Explosive charges on the vehicle had initiated the total destruction of all of the buildings, everything inside them and in the immediate surrounds. The Belgian 1st Brigade headquarters which had been occupying the site until a few hours before had already shifted to a new location on the right. Joint Command headquarters for the Mississippi Guardsmen had been up and running at a derelict factory two miles north before the Belgi
an move. The attack on the command and control element had been a failure and it also sounded the alarm for the US troops, and the Belgians still in the lines. Less than an hour after the Spetznaz attempt heavy but sporadic artillery barrages began with nerve agent mixed in with the high explosive. It found no ready targets; the defenders were already under cover and preparing. Eighty percent of the Americans had already seen action in Iraq and there were veterans in the ranks from Bosnia and Desert Storm before that. This was not a green and untried outfit. 155th had shortcomings though as its own vehicles, tanks and guns, plus many of the crews, were aboard ships of the convoys and still several days out. Until they arrived their mechanised infantry were leg infantry and the few tanks and guns were from the storage depots and would have to suffice.
C Company 2/198th Armoured had a mixed bag of M1 and M1A1s which even with a remaining Belgian squadron of Leopard 1s left them stretched very thin.
The 3 (UK) Mechanised Brigades fight was drawing to a close before 155th had a ground target. The imminence of the dawn had not altered the ferocity of the ground assault. When it finally went in the National Guardsmen and their Belgian allies were fighting for their very lives.
The 155th’s battle became a focus for air support as the other assault river crossings tailed off. Exhausted JSTARS and AWACS crews found themselves losing peripheral vision in the battle as tired senses coped by concentrating on no more business than absolutely necessary.
The attack on the 155th was not a feint but the timing of another facet of the Red Army campaign was deliberate. With tunnel vision effecting NATO battlefield surveillance sixteen modified Maz 543 transporter erector launcher vehicles emerged from cover, rolling out from beneath bridge spans, camouflaged netting and other widely dispersed sites providing cover from prying eyes and photo reconnaissance packs.
