by Andy Farman
“Do we know how the Russian carrier came to be the other side of the globe from where our Intel led us to believe it was?” the president enquired.
“It had to have passed through the Bering Straits, in which case we may have screwed the pooch, but I suspect a friendly voice in Panama or Egypt would have dropped a dime on them as it passed through one of those canals. There is an investigation team enroute to Alaska now; we may have been compromised there too as their sensors are not tied into the same system as the satellites, Mr President.”
CIA and FBI both updated the president on the hunt for the devices, which may be out there somewhere. CIA had another item for the president that was a cause of concern.
“Mr President, we may have a problem in the UK” Terry Jones warned him.
“I haven’t heard anything but positive stuff from there, did I miss something?” the president asked.
“Sir, Art Petrucci, head of station has a very reliable source. Do you know of any diplomatic mission the Brits have negotiating with Russia?”
“No, what have you got?”
Once the CIA Director had laid out the information from Petrucci the president was both annoyed and curious
“Who the hell is his source?” Terry wrote it on a piece of paper and folded it before sliding it across. The president burnt the note and crushed the ashes.
“Well thank heaven not everyone of integrity has been replaced over there…keep me posted.” Turning to an aide he forced the man to bend lower as whispered in his ear.
Without change of expression the man left the room.
“General Shaw, please remain behind after this session if you would please…thank you ladies and gentlemen.” And the meeting adjourned.
Whilst Shaw waited patiently the president sat deep in thought for a few minutes collecting his thoughts.
“I now know how Eisenhower felt when France withdrew from NATO.” He said to himself.
“Sir?”
“General Shaw…would you please have some of your staff draw up contingency plans for the possibility of Britain’s declaration of neutrality.”
“There must be some mistake sir…the British have always stood shoulder to shoulder with us. What was the CIA Intel sir?”
“Firstly general, head of station trusts his source in as much as the source does not trust his own premier and has no political axe to grind whatsoever. It also appears that the British PM never envisaged ever being in the position that he does now, with a nuclear world conflict in danger of breaking out. He is reportedly hedging his bets. It seems he can talk the talk but the walk is beyond him.” The president nodded sadly.
“However, I very much doubt he speaks for the majority of his people…what do you think?”
“I have personally witnessed British soldiers drop their personal weapons and set to with the ‘enemy’ with fists on a training exercise, sir”
The president smiled.
“Your troops, general?”
“Hell no sir, the ‘enemy’ were Brits too…they just happened to belong to a different regiment… those guys love a fight!”
“Let us hope that is true of their present governments shadow opposition too!”
“Sir?” asked his senior soldier.
“Nothing general, just thinking aloud…I want the contingency plan to be in the utmost confidence, understood general?”
“Of course sir.”
England: Same time
Having been collected from the Officers Mess at Brecon by a very attractive female captain and silent NCO driver; the trio had driven toward London. Nikoli had chatted pleasantly with the captain and attempted to extract her telephone number, with no success but she had been amused by his attempt.
Pulling into a motorway services area Nikoli had been admiring the Captains shapely rear as it disappeared with its owner and a holdall towards the ladies when the staff sergeant driver had spoken for the first time.
“Even at 12 years old you bored the girls with your chatter Nikoli Bordenko!”
Nikoli was only able to stare at the driver. He spoke perfect Russian and apparently knew him!
Constantine had twisted around in his seat to look at his distant cousin and removed his red RMP beret.
“You are looking well Nikoli, how are your parents?”
“Constantine?”
“As you can see cousin, poor pay has forced me to take a second job,” he joked.
“What are you doing here, are you spying?”
“Nikoli, I have something important to tell you…”
Politburo Building, Beijing: 2132hrs, same day
Alone in his office Premier Chiu was in telephone conference with his opposite number in Moscow. Although there did exist an up to date video conferencing system, the Chinese leader kept secret his inability to operate it unaided. There was no one else present, as it was a private one to one between the two leaders. Another little secret that few were privy to was Chiu’s command of the Russian language.
“My dear friend, I have to say that we were rather disconcerted at the rapid reaction of the West. Your plan called for complete surprise and that has been very obviously lost?”
The voice from Moscow was confident in its reply.
“The situation has started the first cracks in the West, Comrade Chiu, and America is unaware that its allies are already seeking to distance themselves from the coming hostilities,” he did not elaborate on which country or countries, nor how many. He was confident that once Britain turned tail, other NATO signatories would follow suit. He was however discomfited by the Chinese Premiers next statement.
“Be that as it may, with the existing time table the West will be far advanced in its mobilisation by the time we attack. Unless you can suggest some preventative measures I can no longer guarantee my countries support.”
The Russian would have made as fine a poker player, as he was an accomplished chess player. His voice revealed nothing of the kick he had felt in his stomach. He had allowed for this contingency but had not wished to put that plan into action.
“Comrade Premier, were the plan advanced by four days would that assist to reassure you of its continued viability… As the cat is out of the bag so far as my country is concerned, we were already able to begin mobilisation. I am sure that there is nothing to alert the West toward yourselves. They have not made a connection between the significance of the Mao and the delivery of the terrorist device in London, indeed they do not yet known where the Mao originated. Their satellites are still unreliable and they know nothing of our combined forces preparing to strike in the Pacific.” he assured his opposite number.
“I believe that three or four days would be advantageous in destroying those military targets that would still be occupied with reporting troops and equipment.” conceded the Chinese leader. “There is I agree little to suppose that the alliance of our countries is yet known. As to our forces gathering in the north Pacific, I was informed several hours’ ago that our picket ships have detected a United States Los Angeles class submarine approaching the area. Would you agree that the time has come to ensure our alliance remains secret?”
“I would indeed,” agreed the Russian.
“Good, your submarine Gegarin has been alerted and is now stalking the American,” replied Beijing.
“Then we should sink it before it has anything to transmit back to its fleet.”
The Chinese Premier smiled maliciously.
“I agree”.
Heathrow Airport, London, England: 2357hrs, same day
Scott cleared Customs and after a moment saw a board being held that bore his name. After bona fides had been checked by both parties Scott shook hands with the staff member who had apparently drawn the short straw in collecting him at this late hour.
“Flight was delayed out of Chicago, if I could have got the BA flight from Washington I’d have been in over three hours’ ago. No one explained why it was necessary fly to Chicago first, is there a problem?”
They left terminal 3 and walked into the English rain. “There may be.” A car pulled up and his escort opened the back door for him, jumping into the front seat himself. Scott was not alone in the back seat, and the driver he had met before.
“Let me get us away from this place and I can fill you in Scott,” Art Petrucci informed him as he checked the mirror and pulled out. The man sharing the back seat introduced himself to Scott and enquired
“Is this your first time in England Mr Tafler?” Scott was surprised. “Yes sir it is, would Mr Petrucci also have been collecting you from the airport or are you here to see me?”
The Englishman smiled.
“Alas I am kept rather too busy of late to have been able to take the luxury of a trip to foreign parts.”
Before reaching the M4 motorway that would take them into London proper their front seat passenger spoke into a radio with a telephone-like handset. Replacing the handset he nodded to Art Petrucci.
“We’re clear, no tail.”
Art pulled over and they swapped places. On the move again and now bound for central London Art gave Scott a rundown of what he had obviously not been privy to before.
“I wanted you to meet this gentleman sat here because you will probably not get the chance again. There have been wind changes that will be a great surprise to you, but I have met the architect of these changes and unfortunately I wasn’t. Terry Jones sent you over here to try and contact the Russian who tipped us off, and it will be no mean feat if you can pull it off. The Russian secret service wants him and so does MI5. That won’t come as a surprise to you… but the Brit spooks handing him over to the Russian’s if they get there first will be!”
Scott looked at the head of station as if he had grown two heads.
“Unfortunately very possible,” the Englishman said.
“Our Prime Minister appears to lack the courage it takes to be the ‘world statesman’ he aspires to be, or as my officers would put it ‘He has lost his bottle, large!’ but I have some information here that may assist you,” he handed over a docket.
“The Brit intelligence services don’t know who you are or that you are in the country, but they know everyone at London station. They may or may not put tails on us so we cannot help you after tonight…. but our friend here can.” Art informed him.
“I took the precaution of withholding certain facts when I briefed the PM following the discovery of the suitcase device” explained Sir Richard Tennant.
“We found only one fingerprint upon the outside of the suitcase that could not be accounted for. A very extensive search of databases has finally tracked it down to one supplied in opening a bank account in Paris, France. The address given is false, as probably is the name; however, there was also a photograph with the application. As you know an unknown female accompanies Major Bedonavich, at least that is what we suppose. Assuming they are no longer in the capital I have had missing person’s reports checked. A bank in London has reported an employee missing. She has no next of kin that are known and a welfare visit by one of their personnel staff found her flat door had apparently been forced sometime recently.”
Their car slowed on a slip road, faster moving cars and goods vehicles whipped past and raised a mist of spray before they joined the London bound traffic on the M4 motorway.
“The flat had been searched I believe and then trashed to cover the evidence of that search.” Sir Richard went on.
“As a precaution the local station recorded it as a crime in the absence of a formal allegation by the lady herself. A scene of crime examiner has attended and lifted some prints. I have had my stations email any photographs of recently missing women between 14 and 80. We have been comparing them to the French bank application photograph. I was alerted when the photograph on the application was found to be that of the young woman in the photograph supplied by her employers when reporting her as a missing person. I have had the marks found at the flat treated as a priority job, the bad news is that one of the marks belonged to an Irish terrorist, very recently dead I am happy to say in the raid in Essex, but there is the possibility that she fell into their hands. I have already heard the orders given regarding her capture.” The commissioners voice lowered slightly. “Young man, the only person whom I would wish that fate on is the man who wished it upon her in the first place.”
Scott began speed reading through the docket before him and came upon the section regarding Christina Carlisle.
“I take it this is not her real name…or is it?” he asked.
“Either she is a girlfriend of the gallant major or she is what you would term as an ‘illegal’, personally I think the chances are more likely that she is the latter of the two.” explained Sir Richard.
Scott opened a buff envelope and several photographs spilled out. “Wow!” he exclaimed in admiration. The policeman was smiling. “Precisely…a little too racy for page three of the tabloids but it would seem either the good major or a previous close friend knows their way around a camera and the fair Miss Carlisle is not the bashful type. That photograph was found with the remainder, in her flat” Scott moved on to the end of the docket.
“I have taken the precaution of arranging your accommodation rather than Art, you will be staying at a rented address along with some help, and there is a hire car in the drive in your name.”
“You will have two of London’s finest with you Scott, we cannot carry firearms but they can. If I were the brain behind this plot I wouldn’t waste the effort of trying to find the major and the young lady, not given that we have already discovered it. However, once you have read the docket fully I think you will agree that Peridenko is one vindictive mother. I would like these two found before his people get them. He and Carlisle may know a lot more” Art informed him.
“The Commissioner has covered a lot of ground in a short time. Miss Carlisle for example is renowned amongst her colleagues for her ability to complete the Times crossword with admirable speed. The answers to five of the clues tomorrow will be ‘Carlisle’, ‘Emperor Constantine’, ‘Whitehall’, ‘OneTwoOneTwo’ and ‘Commissioner’.” Scott knew what Art was getting at but…?
“The phone number for Scotland Yard in days gone by was rather famous due its often being quoted in the cinema, Whitehall 1212. I agree that it is a long shot but I am open to suggestions,” the commissioner enlightened him.
“If the young lady has time to buy the paper, do the crossword and make the connection, I am hoping she will call. The Information Room operators have been primed to listen for callers named Constantina Carlisle and the like.” He shrugged,
“It’s a bit Boys Own Weekly and Famous Five but the best I could come up with at short notice,” the policeman admitted.
“Who the hell are they?” was all Scott could respond with.
USS Commanche: 0120hrs, 28th March
With the exception of normal merchant traffic, much of it travelling at greater rates of knots than their company accountants would like, nothing so far had come to the notice of the USS Commanche. The rumblings of war had the mercantile marines of all nations looking over their shoulders and heading for the relative safety of coastal waters and ports. There was an air of expectancy amongst the crew as they neared the assigned search area. This had been offset by the news they may soon be at war with Russia. Why were they messing with the Chinese instead of the warships of China’s neighbour? The later report of a Russian carrier group being in the region, their only carrier group, had set them polishing the accessible warheads and asking their captains permission to write inane messages on the weapons casings. Joe had acquiesced to their request but insisted on his Exec checking the spelling.
“No one’s going to accuse this boat of launching misspelt profanities in time of war Mister, no sireee!” he had explained with theatrical earnestness.
With no real skills of his own that could assist the crew, Dr Dave Bowman had tired of pacing the length of his tiny-shared quarters and lying on his bunk. Before the rumours
of war had reached them he had at least been able to chat with the odd crew member, they were all now far too intent on their tasks to bother with a strange civilian in need of a haircut. Dave had offered his services to the ships cook as a kitchen hand; he was at least no longer starved of human company and was doing something.
In the control room the Exec had the watch. Captain Hart was in his bunk catching some zee’s whilst it was still quiet.
“Con, Sonar…high speed screws approaching on reciprocal course…bearing 183’, range 16000 yards and closing, designated Sierra One Five, classify as Krivak surface warship, estimate speed as 27 knots, sir”
The Exec had just looked down at the plot and decided to call the captain when the sonar operator spoke again.
“Con, sonar, aspect change on Sierra One Five…vessel is turning hard to starboard…vessel has now reversed course sir.” Now what was all that about wondered the Exec and cancelled calling his captain.
“Sonar, Con…keep an eye on that guy, report as soon as he does anything screwy again.”
“Sonar, aye sir.”
Fifteen minutes later and the Krivak turned again; its screws thrashing the water as it raced in their direction once more. This time the Exec did call the captain. Joe Hart looked at the plot and looked as bemused as his Exec as the Krivak turned about again and raced away. Joe was about to ask if anything else had happened.
“Transient! Transient! Transient… torpedoes in the water close astern!” the sonar shack shouted the warning.
“Full ahead flank, launch counter measures, hard a-port and make your depth one hundred feet!” shouted Joe. The Exec slammed his palm onto the button sounding general quarters. The blaring klaxon instigated a tumble of bodies leaving their cots and running towards their action stations. In the galley, Dave Bowman gaped in shock at the noise that tore at his nerves.
