'Stand-To' (Armageddon's Song)

by Andy Farman

  “Before you say it sir, I didn’t succumb to the vain ones, on those occasions I was using them “. Napkins selected she had turned and flashed him a quick smile, laughter and mischief danced in her eyes “A girl has needs too you know”.

  Constantine had laughed. The clock on the wall had brought him back to matters at hand. He had to meet Peridenko’s unsavoury pair in half an hour from then. He knew that it was unsafe to turn his back on them, not now. It had not been possible to arrange back up in so short a time.

  The girl seemed recovered; she had shown she had guts so he had asked her.

  “Ready?” she nodded and exited the car

  Politburo Building, Beijing. 0900hrs GMT, 22nd March

  The Russian’s were already waiting outside the council chambers when the Chinese politburo members began arriving. Today was a late start for them. They may leave all the lights burning throughout the night at the politburo. That was for the benefit of the peasantry, a con that they sat up all hours’ working for the greater good of the people. However, they did start the day earlier than most government’s.

  The previous day had been a very long sitting. The council chamber doors locked and guarded. Food and refreshments had been brought in. Serge had watched the arguments flow to and fro between this faction and that. Tables had been thumped and voices raised. Eventually the Premier had halted the session, ordering everyone home to bed. Serge knew that the debating had continued in homes between the groups. It was far too sensitive to be spoken of by ‘phone, not even the members’ secure telephones.

  When everyone was settled Marshal Lo Chang bowed low to the Premier and faced the Russian’s.

  “I have spent most of the night discussing your proposed invasion plan with the Premier and Defence Minister Pong. Your point that surveillance satellites negate a classic, working up of arms and later deployment to jump off points is accepted fact. We had believed that only two things, deception, what you call a mastroika and a full nuclear pre-emptive strike could succeed. Your plan is daring, it has genius in its boldness, but we still have no counter for the American aircraft carrier groups”.

  Peridenko stood, before speaking he nodded to an aide who distributed thin folders to all the committee members. “Comrades, I believe you are all familiar with the highly placed asset in America’s FBI which our intelligence service ran for many years” he paused whilst the interpreter translated for him. “His arrest has been another example of their failures. We have arrested and executed every single name upon the lists before you. American and IMF loans have provided regular, generous salaries to certain key workers. America believes the ‘Russian Mafia’ had circumvented large amounts, in fact they did, although not as much as we had them believe. An asset has for the last three years been altering, by means of a computer program, certain areas of interest to their surveillance satellites”. He nodded to the display screen technician; the screen came to life. “Behold, displacing 72,156 tons, I give you, quite literally, the People’s Liberation Army Navy nuclear powered aircraft carrier ‘Mao’”. The interpreter went into rapid-fire mode to deliver the coup de main.

  Marshal Lo Chang was out of his seat swiftly. He approached too close to the screen to see clearly and stepped back a few paces. Removing his spectacles he first cleaned and then replaced them, eyes squinting as he peered at the display. Finally he looked at the Russians.

  “Is this more computer generated wizardry?” He turned back to study the image, then turned back again “It is the Varyag, or the Admiral Gorshkov, yes?”

  The Soviet navy had once had an expanding carrier arm. The Minsk, Leningrad, Novorossiysk, Kiev, Moskva and Admiral Kuznetsov, inferior in design to the American carriers and their engines oil fired. The USSR had three nuclear powered carriers under construction at the time of the regimes fall. Ul’yanovsk, Varyag and the Admiral Gorshkov. All the old carriers except the Kuznetsov had been scrapped. Ul’yanovsk was recycled before completion; her sisters had survived although partially built. India had made noises about buying the Gorshov and a Japanese hotelier voiced plans to convert Varyag into a hotel and casino.

  Lo Chang stepped closer to Serge, not waiting for the Russian to answer.

  “You completed one of them?” he asked excitedly.

  Serge answered him.

  “Marshal, this is no trickery, the vessel carries all of twelve Sukhoi Su-32FN fighter bombers, sixteen Su-27 and twelve Mig-29s, all naval variants and all carrier capable naturally, and of course air refuelling and airborne early warning airframes, plus helicopters.” After a pause to allow it to dawn on his audience what new horizons now availed themselves, he continued.

  “This is a massive multi trillion Rouble investment that we hand to you, that you may chase the Americans from striking range of your borders. Not as they are now, but in six months’ time, when you have rolled up the Pacific and are sat on Australia’s doorstep. Close enough you can smell their ‘Barbie’s’ on the wind” Serge paused “There are risks, of course there are risks” he was passing along the backs of the politburo members chairs, forcing them to turn and face him.

  “Only from a cold start, a standing start if you will….on the heels of the devastating strikes delivered by terrorists groups, this weak, corrupt West we face now will be defeated. The West is chasing Al Qaeda and Bin Laden, they have few forces in place and no warning!” he returned to his seat. All eyes turned to the Premier who was nodding slowly. The Premier took a deep breath.

  “A vote then, all for the plan” pausing he looked at each of the members

  “Raise your hands”. His own was foremost, quickly followed by the Defence Minister and Marshal Lo Chang. After a minute there were only three dissenters, all three cast their eyes down at the table top in front of them. Ignoring them, the Premier stated.

  “Carried”. He rose and approached Serge and Peridenko “My congratulations on an innovative plan comrade”.

  Serge shook his head

  “No Comrade Premier Chiu, this plan is the brainchild of one single man, our current Premier”.

  CHAPTER 2

  Embassy of the Russian Federation, London: 0700hrs 22nd March

  Constantine had arrived for work an hour previously and immediately checked his email for secure messages; he had spent the next hour speaking to Moscow Centre.

  The suitcase, he was informed, contained a sophisticated timing device and a new explosive superior to Semtex H. The case it was carried in was also of a special material, apparently once detonated there would be no forensics’ left for even the most modern laboratories to gain any clues, let alone evidence.

  The bomb had been for delivery to an Irish terror group. The Irish were planning a ‘spectacular’, which Constantine had already worked out for himself, but beyond that he had no ‘need to know’.

  Constantine was irritated, the time of sponsoring these animals was supposed to have passed.

  The good news was that the missing cars anti-theft device’s transmitter signal could be isolated. It would be possible to locate the car without the Police being alerted. Looking at his watch he estimated at least an hour at the earliest, before his NCIS contact would have anything for him.

  Constantine was ill at ease with the previous evenings meeting with Peridenko’s pair. Both had behaved as though nothing untoward had occurred previously. The woman, the tall attractive blue eyed and blonde Alexandra Berria and been almost flirtatious, however refreshments were declined by Constantine and Svetlana. The cultured public schoolboy tones of the man, Anthony Carmichael, were no product of any language school. He was the real article. Harrow and Eton educated, wealthy old family. Carmichael had entered Sandhurst, as had his father and his father before him, etc., and joined the old county regiment the Carmichael's had served with since Napoleon had been public enemy number one. Unfortunately for the infantrymen of his first, and fortunately his last, platoon, 2nd Lt Anthony Carmichael was a bully and a sadist. A happy unit is a good unit and 12 Platoon of one particu
lar battalion went from good to bad in short order. The Army caught on to the antics of Lt Carmichael and there soon came a parting of the ways with Carmichael being required to resign his commission. Carmichael had further embarrassed his family when a few years later he had been arrested and jailed for beating and raping a prostitute.

  Whilst in custody the police had also questioned him about the earlier disappearances of two other known prostitutes and a rent boy, but there had been insufficient evidence to indicate foul play in their vanishing.

  Carmichael had been recruited by the KGB as a ‘stringer’ in the late 80’s and had been noticed by Peridenko who paired him up with Berria; the two kindred spirits had stayed together after the KGB downsizing dispensed with their services.

  The Russian Mafia kept them in suitable employment controlling and acquiring prostitutes. Every so often an abducted young woman of particular striking beauty would be delivered to Peridenko’s dacha instead of the Mafia’s brothels and porn movie studios. It was their way of staying in his good books, their version of Christmas and birthday cards.

  The previous night Carmichael had been all business, there was a single scratch on his throat from Svetlana’s nail but nothing else to indicate an altercation had occurred. Constantine had not mentioned the earlier events either, but he was worried. These two would seek revenge on both of them at some point; it was in their nature.

  Svetlana had not touched a firearm since her training, a fact known to Carmichael and Berria. At Constantine’s instruction she had worn clothing too tight to conceal a handgun. Denim effect leggings without panties left both little to the imagination and no hiding place for a weapon. The tight sweater however had long sleeves that extended to the base of her thumbs; a slim, tube-like single shot .22 ‘zip gun’ was secured to her wrist, held in place by her watchstrap. He had calculated that the leggings, bare midriff and obviously braless Svetlana would allay any suspicions as to concealed weapons. After her earlier masterful demonstration he had doubted they would completely rule her out as a potential threat though. In contrast, Major Bedonavich had been ostentatiously armed and ready for trouble. He had ordered them to stand ready with the Irish in vehicles from 0800 the next day when the car, thief or both were located, they were then to secure them with as little violence as necessary and call him.

  Peckham Police Station, SE London: 0800, same day

  A ‘street duties’ course is for the benefit of newly arrived probationary Constables to take their initial tottering steps in police work after leaving Hendon Training School. It is also a chance for their future teams to correct any illusions they may have about what ‘The Job’ entails. As such a few experienced officers from those very teams closely supervise them. Parading them today Police Sergeant Alan Harrison had a bundle of ‘warrant dockets’ under his arm. Those people who had been identified yet not arrested for offences or had failed to answer bail were contained in the dockets. PCs Sarah Hughes, John Wainwright, Colin Mackey and Phil McEllroy would do the rounds with the ‘skipper’, PS Harrison and a twenty year veteran PC Dave Carter. Amongst the bundle was a warrant for Jubi Asejoke. A pencilled notation above his registered address gave an alternative location where he may be found. After a cup of coffee in the canteen, they climbed aboard a twelve seat Mercedes Sprinter minibus, known as a carrier, and left the station.

  Langley, Virginia: 0915hrs same day

  Ducking below an office divider and very aware he was late, Scott Tafler started the new week by avoiding his boss. Like a man looking for something small he’d misplaced, he had almost, almost, made it to his workstation by utilising the dead ground provided by varied office furniture.

  Peering over the top of a pair of spectacles directly at him was the aforementioned boss, Max Reynolds, sat at Scott’s position. “Morning Scott, that jack-knifed water buffalo at the end of your road really held things up, huh?”

  Straightening up Scott greeted him with a

  “Yep, it got you too, huh?”

  Max had been perusing Scott’s ‘In’, ‘Out’ and ‘Pending / Too difficult right now’ trays.

  “Anything new…and if you make that crack about microchip technology, you is buying lunch fella!” Scott grinned, after a moment he said

  “Maybe something, maybe nothing” Max sat tapping his teeth thoughtfully with an earpiece of his glasses as Scott explained the O’Connor report and his brother-in-laws remarks.

  The boss gave Scott back his seat.

  “Give Armondson a call at Commerce, he’s a deep thinker and knows the China and Russia markets” and departed.

  Scott caught Armondson on the second ring.

  “Swede, Scott, how are you?”

  Eric Armondson confirmed what Scott already knew, that there was no way China would sponsor a competitor, despite the relatively recent kiss and make up of the two countries as seen in the mutual trade and military assistance treaties of 1998. So either O’Connor had been fed misinformation or something hooky was going down.

  Right on cue a light flashed on his display, it was Ms O’Connor returning his call.

  After updating the boss, a request was passed to the FBI office in San Diego to debrief her thoroughly on her Russian contract.

  Central London: 1015hrs, same day.

  The sun was shining intermittently through broken cloud upon the joggers in St James Park, the tourists who had begun to gather at the western end. Passers-by and other tourists had paused to watch the goings on the other side of some railings running along Birdcage Walk.

  Today was the turn of the Coldstream Guards to provide the ‘Queens Guard’, and the curious civvies watched the men in Bearskin caps, grey greatcoats, white buff kit and best boots formed up in two detachments with the Band and the Corps of Drums in attendance.

  How the Guards came about their headgear and the red plume worn on the right by this particular regiment would have offended the politically correct sensibilities of many in the crowd. Had they been in Belgium, at a place called Waterloo, late in the afternoon of the 18th June 1815, they would have seen a unit of French soldiers wearing the Bearskin hats but with white plumes in them. Napoleon’s French Imperial Guard were his elite troops, made up of veterans who had proved their courage in battle whilst serving with other regiments. The Imperial Guard had never been defeated until Napoleon sent them up a grassy slope that afternoon against their opposite numbers, the British Guards regiments. Some wrote later that the French Imperial Guard fled the field, but those authors’ slighted brave men in so doing. The Frenchmen did not drop their arms and run, but backed away, back down the slope they had fought their way up. In a fighting withdrawal they gave ground, stepping on the bodies of the hundreds of their comrades who had fallen on the way up. The British Guards fixed bayonets and went after them, discarding their Shako’s, the common headgear of the British infantry. They replaced them with the bearskins of those they slew, trophies of war and a symbol that they had done what no others had been able to achieve. To prevent ‘friendly fire’ incidents in the heat of battle they removed the white French plumes and altered the colour with the one dye available in that place. The British troops turned them red by dipping them in the blood of the fallen, and there was a lot of that item about that day, roughly 48,500 from both sides in fact.

  Today on the square at Wellington Barracks the young men of the Buckingham Palace and St James Palace guard detachments were drawn up awaiting the presence of the regimental sergeant major with various levels of dread.

  One such soldier who had every reason to fear the worst of the RSMs wrath was Guardsman Robertson, he had gone out ‘on the beer’ to a club on the Old Kent Road the previous night, arriving back in barracks at 4am the worst for wear, his clothing grubby from falling over more than a few times. Robertson had only gotten past the guardroom safely due to a mate being ‘on stag’, on sentry duty, at the time. Word of his condition had made the rounds after reveille and was not well received by one individual, the soldier designated as one
of the two Men-in-Readiness, who would have to take the place of anyone who failed inspection. The soldier in question was a married man, and tonight was his wife’s birthday so he told Robertson his fortune should he not survive the inspection.

  To add to the young man’s woes; the Captain of the Guard, the officer who would be inspecting the New Guard was Major Manson, who was not known for being an easy going individual. The major made a point of finding fault, even where no fault existed; it was a trait that hardly endeared him to his men, who considered him an out and out bastard.

  The sergeant for the Buckingham Palace New Guard had turned the air blue when he learnt about Robertson, but after bending his ear he stuck the errant soldier in the centre rank, and hopefully out of sight. Robinson looked like death warmed up and stank like a distillery, but his mate Aldridge, mucked in to get him ready. Robertson had been in a hurry to get his kit done the night before, cutting corners as he went. He hadn’t wrapped his brasses in cling film to keep the air off the metal once he’s cleaned them, and he had used a popular kitchen floor application on his boots, applying it with a piece of cotton wool. Aldridge had cursed him when he looked at the brasses, and hurriedly buffed them up, but when he got his mates best boots from out of the man’s locker he’d slapped Robertson across the back of the head.

  “You wanker…you put that crap on yer toe caps and didn’t even wait for it to dry!” The clean yellow rag lain across the boots to keep the dust off had stuck fast to the surface. A quick examination of Robertson’s ‘Seconds’ the drill boots worn for practice and rehearsals revealed that they were far below the high standard required for a Queens Guard. Shaking his head he went to his locker for his own ‘Best Boots’, they were good enough to get his mate through the inspection before the guard was mounted.