Soul Taker

by John Garforth

  SOUL TAKER

  JOHN GARFORTH

  SOUL TAKER

  Copyright © 2018 by John Garforth. All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Preview: SOUL TAKER 2

  CHAPTER 1

  As the rest of the horrified world looked on, Nuclear war destroyed Western Europe and most of the Russian Federation on 12th April 2020. The Continent’s catastrophic ending was captured by satellite. Real time images of the devastation and slaughter taking place beneath the black mushroom clouds, were beamed around the globe. First hand Social media reports, containing mobile phone images, were posted on line, pictures of cities, consumed by fireballs, went viral. Seasoned television newsreaders, broke down on camera, struggling to deal with the dreadful orgy of death and destruction that they had to report.

  What was left of the planets population watched with ghastly fascination, terrified and appalled by the carnage that played itself out in their homes, but unable to ignore it, they sat glued to all the media outlets, ratings soared. All of this slaughter took place in the vacuum that had once housed America’s foreign policy. The countries new, right wing, government had taken the entire world by surprise when it abandoned its Allies, closed most of its Embassies and withdrew from the world’s stage. Adopting the slogan ‘America First’ they mothballed all their Military Bases around the globe, pulling all their weapons and manpower back to the States.

  Sick and tired of policing the worlds trouble spots and fed up with being taken for granted, the USA had decided that enough was enough. The watchword at home had become ‘American Workers for American Jobs’, this was the mantra that the Senate and Congress listened to. So, in the end, the world’s only super power made the decision to turn its back on its, so called, European friends. For many years, Congress had felt deep unease about the ‘raw deal’ that the American taxpayer was getting from the Europeans. Patience had run out, bank rolling a weak and underfunded NATO was no longer an option. So, from now on, the United States of America, safe behind its closed borders, gazed out upon a much more complicated, dangerous and fractious world.

  With the sudden loss of American support and its troops and armour, the European Alliance became shaky and vulnerable. It was beyond the means of NATO’s members to make up the financial shortfall that had been America’s contribution and the organisation became emasculated. The ramifications of this situation, led to a dangerous destabilising of the MAD {Mutual Assured Destruction} doctrine. The doctrine, developed in the Cold War, had become the cornerstone of nuclear policy in Europe and across the world, a deterrent that had proved its worth and had prevented war for nearly eighty years.

  The war, when it did break out, began on the much-disputed borders of Russia and the Ukraine, low level skirmishes intensified as people began settling old scores. Russia’s annexation of the Crimea three or four years earlier had left simmering tensions. These finally erupted when the Ukranian army was ordered to push the meddling Russians back behind their own borders.

  • • •

  Prime Minister Carlisle switched off the speaker on his telephone console and with trembling fingers, pushed it slowly back across the polished patina of his mahogany desk. His tired, watery blue eyes danced around the crowded room, he couldn’t remember his private office at No10 ever being so full. Civil Service Mandarins sat cheek by jowl with his Chiefs of Staff, their entourage and some of his own most trusted advisors filled the rest of the unallocated spaces.

  Carlisle was in his late sixties, an imposing figure, tall, slim and always impeccably dressed, having a full head of grey hair with matching moustache helped him look younger than his years. Using the index finger on his left hand, he nervously elevated his glasses until they rested on the bridge of his bony nose. The Hotline conversation with the President of the United States had been difficult and non-productive. It had left him processing a number of mixed of emotions, first among them was exasperation, followed by annoyance and finally, stomach churning fear.

  He’d expected that the man would be difficult, but, as always, he was bemused at just how rude, self-opiniated and loud the President was. Long silences always punctuated any conversations that the Prime Minister had with him, and when anything difficult was put to the man, his default position was to prevaricate, insist on time to reflect and always avoid making any significant decisions by reciting the usual mantra.

  “He didn’t feel it was in the interests of the American people,” or the usual caveat, “leave it with me I’ll discuss it with my Chief of Staff later, but I must warn you that the mood on Capitol hill is very difficult at this time.”

  Carlisle looked straight across at the Air Chief Marshall sat opposite him. Although everybody in the office had heard the conversation, the Prime minister wanted opinions.

  “Well what do you think of that,” he asked, answering himself with another question, “completely bloody useless wasn’t it?”

  I don’t think that we should have any illusions, the man is a complete arse, we are on our own, and the sooner we get used to it the better. So, let’s have your opinion on the crisis Jim, are the Russians bluffing, or do they mean business this time?

  Sir James Biddle cleared his throat, “It’s a bluff Sir, it’s always a bluff with the Ruskies. As usual, they push and push until we back off. Well I say not any more Sir, this time we should stand our ground. There are twenty-six thousand troops from more than twenty European alliance nations in and around Ukraine on major exercises. I don’t imagine it will have gone unnoticed by President Kuynetsov.

  General Sir Bruce Williamson was nodding in agreement.

  “Don’t forget Sir, we also have Cyclops out there, that’s one of the Sabre Squadrons from our own 1st Armoured Infantry Brigade. That amount of armour is not to be sneezed at, eighteen Challenger 2 Tanks will look bloody impressive and they’re moving up to the border as we speak.” He smiled at the PM, “the Russians have nothing to match our armour, so they won’t dare risk a fight.”

  “It’s a pity that the new Queen Elizabeth carrier isn’t ready for service yet. What about the French one that’s out there, what is it and where is it?”

  Admiral Sir Francis Smith conferred with one of his adjutants, then turned to the prime minister.

  “Apparently, it’s the Charles de Gaulle, it’s a nuclear-powered Aircraft Carrier with one hell of a clout. From the latest intel, we’ve got, it’s sailing up the Bospherous as we speak and will be in the Black sea by this evening. That’ll make Kuynetsov choke on his Vodka”

  Carlisle turned to the Air Chief Marshall, “have we got any aircraft in the area?”

  “We’ve got forty Typhoons and eight Tornadoes at our base in Akrotiri, Cyprus. They’re being used in the Syrian conflict and are operational now, if you
so wish.” He hesitated for a moment, “may I just add prime minister,” he glanced round the room, “I think that everyone will agree, that this lacklustre response by the Americans to this latest Russian aggression, not only undermines our determination, but is disastrous for the men’s morale. This will not end well, we can’t stand alone against the Russians, the Americans know that, but obviously, no longer care. We are one of their oldest allies, with years of shared history between us, once, we were even their partner of first choice, yet now, when push finally comes to shove, they’re just going to shrug their shoulders and walk away.”

  • • •

  “The Brits seem really agitated,” said the US president James Gilbert looking across at his burly Chief of Staff Mick Johnson, “are you sure we’ve got a handle on this situation, because they seem pretty sure that the Russians are going to go for it this time.”

  Mick stroked his bald head as he replied, “Our take on this problem, is that it’s a very European issue. Nothing for us to get drawn into, none of our assets or interests are at risk.

  “Surely, it’s not just about assets or interests, our two countries go back a long way.”

  “But that’s exactly my point, Mr President, we’ve stood shoulder to shoulder with the Brits through two World Wars. Our young men and women gave their all, we lost thousands, don’t you think that we’ve done enough?”

  President James Gilbert was small and his belly sagged over his trousers, he had a round face with tight, shiny pink skin and wore a Crucifix dangling from one ear. His wavy copper coloured hair was pulled back in a pig tail and although he normally wore glasses, he was doggedly persevering with contact lenses, which made his small blue eyes look glassy and tearful.

  “I see you’re point Mick, but don’t forget, we’ve got the Election next year. If the Russians kick off and we’re not there for the Europeans, what will the voters think?”

  “They’ll be glad that we’re not involved Sir, why would they want to risk American lives in a far-off war that has nothing to do with us.”

  “It bothers me though Mick,” his face was set, his normally cherubic mouth a thin line.

  “But Sir, I’m just trying to make you understand that getting us involved in some European free for all, would be bad for your ratings, voters don’t want you sending their kids off to die in Europe.

  “No Mick, it’s you that doesn’t seem to understand,” said the President, with a sly smile, “I’m not really bothered about the war.”

  “Well what is it then?” Said chief of staff, massaging the back of his neck and looking exasperated.

  “It’s that pompous old fart, Carlisle, the British Prime Minister, he always sends me a case of good Scotch Whisky for Christmas, well, I think that I can kiss that goodbye this year.”

  Then he started laughing at his own joke, braying like a Donkey and pointing a finger at his Chief of Staff.

  “You should have seen your face just then, I really had you going that time.”

  Mick Johnson forced a smile.

  “Very good Sir, you got me that time and I know that you’ve got another meeting in five, but before I go, I’d just like to say that everyone in your Government feels a bit weird not standing shoulder to shoulder with the Brits. But don’t forget, we’re talking about something that probably won’t happen.”

  “It’s alright Mick, I get it, I was just being old fashioned, I realise now that those days are over, it’s time to move on.”

  “Glad that you see it that way Sir, I honestly wouldn’t have advised you to steer clear if I’d thought for one minute that anything was going to happen. We’ve got no evidence or satellite information coming in that shows any significant troop build-up in the area. Neither is there any sign of increased activity with their Aircraft or Navy. I just get this feeling that the Brits feel lost without us at their side, they’re feeling a bit rattled at having to handle all this on their own. We are closely monitoring the situation, but don’t worry, I have a premonition that this will all blow itself out.”

  • • •

  The Russian President Artur Kuznetsov, looked out of his office window as night fell over Moscow. The reflection in the glass showed a stocky man in his late fifties, with receding sandy hair that was turning white at the temples, he had a large, coarse featured face and puffy red eyes. A childhood accident had left a livid scar from the left corner of his mouth to his earlobe. He could have had Plastic surgery at any time, but he felt that the scar gave him a hard man image, one that he enjoyed cultivating.

  It was rush hour, the lines of traffic running alongside the Moskva river were lengthening, rain rattled the glass. He felt tired, listening with only half an ear, as his Chief of Staff droned on behind him.

  “I’m afraid that this is all becoming rather serious Sir, perhaps it’s time for you to put yourself forward and diffuse the situation. Maybe you could make a few phone calls, mend a few bridges, calm things down a little, you know the sort of thing, I think that it’s called being diplomatic sir.”

  Dimitri, Artur’s Chief of Staff of the Presidential Executive Office was standing on the other side of the large Walnut desk that dominated the room. He was a good bit older than his president, balding, with wispy grey hair round the edges, slightly stooped, his parchment skin looked yellow in the strip lights above his head.

  “We’ve given the West the luxury of time.” He continued, clearing his throat with a dry cough, “We’ve missed a trick here Sir, we should have been more pro-active, kept them on the backfoot and moved quicker on the Ukraine. Our intelligence tells us that there are at least twenty-six thousand troops from the European alliance countries almost on our borders.”

  This caught Artur’s attention, he turned quickly, his face looked shocked.

  “How the hell did they get there,” he demanded, “why wasn’t I told?”

  “It’s actually all by pure chance sir.” Said Dimitri, trying to placate his Boss, “They’re all on planned exercises, it’s been on the cards for months. Just a bit of Sabre rattling, under the miss-apprehension that it will frighten us off, make us think twice about taking the Ukraine.”

  Artur felt a sudden flash of anger tighten his chest, his fist clenched.

  “How dare they get so close to our border,” he shouted as he slammed his hand down hard on the desktop, spittle flying as he continued, “This is provocation of the worst kind. Perhaps they think that I’ve no stomach for a confrontation, that these bastards can do just what they like and I’ll simply turn the other cheek, well Dimitri, I’ll show the Swine just how wrong they are”

  “I’m afraid it gets a little bit worse sir,” said Dimitri bracing himself for the explosion, “there’s a British Tank squadron playing war games, they’re on manoeuvres around our border with the Ukraine.” He paused, taking a deep breath before continuing,” the French have also informed us that they are sending their nuclear Aircraft Carrier, the Charles de Gaulle, up the Bospherous and on into the Black sea.”

  President Kuznetsov looked incredulous, the colour was rising in his face.

  “Try not to get too worked up Sir, I must stress that this is all an exercise, nothing more, and it has been planned for months,” continued Dimitri, “We have received many messages from European Alliance that these manoeuvres are purely peaceful and there is no malicious intent whatsoever.”

  “No Dimitri,” Kuznetsov had reached the point where he was trembling with anger, “this is too much, they’re laughing at us, do they really think that the Russian people are so stupid? How would the French feel if we sailed an Aircraft Carrier up the river Seine? They have pushed me and the Russian people too far this time, we will not tolerate this flagrant incursion, neither will we ignore their obvious provocation. We will re-pay this gross insult to our Mother Land once and for all,” his voice was shaking, almost on the edge of hysteria, “get me the General Staff of the Armed Forces, Dimitri, I want them here now, no excuses.”

  “Yes sir.” Dimit
ri started to leave the office.

  “Before you go running off, get me the National Defence Control Centre on the phone, I’ll see to it that their fancy Aircraft Carrier never leaves the Black sea.”

  • • •

  By the evening of the 11th April 2020 Europe, was yet again, engulfed in war. Skirmishes on the Ukraine border had turned into deadly battles as troops became fully engaged. The Russian Defence Control Centre, under direct orders from the Kremlin, was given orders to arm the batteries of ground to ship missiles that Russia carried on their ‘Bastion Mobile Launch Systems’ at the port of Sebastopol in the Crimea. Once the Charles de Gaulle sailed into range the order to fire was relayed directly from President Kuznetsov. The supersonic Onyx missiles did their work splendidly, the Carrier sank without trace, along with everyone on board.

  In a dangerous escalation, the Russian troops on the Ukraine border, for the first time ever, used tactical battlefield Nuclear weapons. Using their T-14 Armata Tanks, they fired two ZBV3 one Kiloton yield nuclear artillery shells at the squadron of British Challenger 2 Tanks. Destroying ten and putting the remaining nine beyond use.

  Prime Minister Carlisle had now gathered with his Generals in the War Rooms beneath No 10 Downing Street, London. He gave orders for the deployment of all four of the Nations battle ready Nuclear Submarines. Each vessel carried a formidable amount of weaponry, sixteen Trident 11 D5 ballistic missiles with a range of seven thousand miles. Each missile equipped with twelve independent and targetable warheads, each one of which would destroy a large city. Confirmation was also received from the French, that they too had deployed their four Triomphant class nuclear submarines from their base in Brest.

  In a none nuclear first stage escalation, Air Chief Marshall Sir Henry Stebbins, in consultation with the Prime Minister, ordered the squadrons of Typhoon and Tornado aircraft, based in Cyprus, to perform retaliatory bombing raids on Moscow. The Prime Minister made a last ditch, emergency call to the White House, pleading for assistance. Unfortunately, President Gilbert was playing golf and couldn’t come to the phone.