The Third World War

Book Two: Trial of Strength

Christopher Nuttall

http://www.chrishanger.net
http://chrishanger.wordpress.com/
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Dear Readers

Armageddon Rising and Trial of Strength were parts one and two of a planned series entitled The Third World War, which was basically an attempt to write about ... the third world war.  (Well, what else?)  <grin>

The series was never completed, for various reasons.  I did have a plan for book three – Last Man Standing – but I never actually finished it.  However, if there is enough interest, I will go back and rewrite the entire series.

Naturally, all of my predictions for the 2010-2018 period have been proven completely wrong.  We should probably be grateful.

Christopher Nuttall

Prologue

The President of Venezuela was a boorish megalomaniac.

General Liu Jianfeng watched as the self-styled Caudillo of Venezuela went through a long speech to his cabinet.  There were times when he wished that his people were truly as inscrutable as westerners believed them to be; keeping his expression blank was a real effort.  Jianfeng knew, without false modesty, that he was a capable officer, one of the Chinese officers responsible for the counter-insurgency operations in western China.  His service there had won him the coveted post of military liaison to President Cesar Eduardo Fernandez, one of the Pact of Opposition’s most…trustworthy allies…trustworthy in the sense that without the Pact’s military support, the Americans would have disposed Fernandez long ago.  Or his own people.  Or one of his political allies.  Or…Latin American politics were never clear to outsiders.  

There were times when Jianfeng suspected that his mission had really been meant as a punishment.  It wasn’t that Fernandez was stupid – he was clearly very intelligent and had a certain charisma that kept his people firmly behind them – but it was the fact that he was…obnoxious.  He had used anti-American rhetoric, time and time again, to conceal the fact that he and his cronies were looting the state for their own ends…and the fact that he had actually built Venezuela into the most powerful Latin American state had not been done for the cause of bringing down America, but to protect himself.  He had survived several determined attempts to assassinate him, which he had blamed on the CIA…and his people had lapped it up.

Jianfeng’s mouth twitched.  Some of them might even have been the CIA at work.

“Answer me a question,” Fernandez proclaimed, his voice booming across the room.  It took Jianfeng a second to realise that Fernandez was talking to him.  “Why should we assist you with your grand plan to bring down America?”

Several answers crossed Jianfeng’s mind, including the droll point that the Pact had supplied Venezuela with all of the military equipment it had requested, some of which it had actually needed.   The Pact had funded an entire series of covert operations designed to set the region on fire, to provide a second front against American power, but gratitude was something of an unreliable nature in Latin America.  The balance of power was vastly against Venezuela; the question was simple.  Did Fernandez know that?

“You told us nothing about the trap you set for the American fleet,” Fernandez said, his voice tightening.  Jianfeng shrugged inwardly.  If any information had been shared, he was sure that the Americans would have heard about it…and then surprise would have been lost.  It had been a close-run thing anyway.  “Why should we commit ourselves to helping you now?”

Jianfeng leaned forward.  “The answer to that question is simple,” he said, in perfect English.  He smiled at their reactions; Fernandez had forbidden the use of English at official discussions.  “Do you want to get out from under the thumb of the Americans, or not?”

Fernandez’s face purpled alarmingly.  “We have been spreading revolution…”

Jianfeng cut him off.  “Yes, you have, like children,” he said.  “You haven’t had a major success in years because the Americans can block you, even after that fool they had for a President five years ago gave up much of their leverage.  American companies run large parts of the region and the Americans probe your borders at will.  Mexico remains under the control of a government that serves American interests, and as for the Panama Canal, which should be used for the good of all Latin Americans…”

Fernandez’s eyes glittered.  His dream of a pan-Latin American movement had sounded insane…until he started putting Venezuela’s oil wealth to work creating it, and the Pact had stepped in with military support.  It had all been very low-key, just to prevent the Americans from taking it seriously, but a great deal of real work had been done without the Americans realising that there was more occurring than empty words.  It wouldn’t last long, but as far as Jianfeng was concerned, it wouldn’t have to last more than a few months.

“And now the Americans are weakened,” Jianfeng continued.  He allowed himself a slight smile.  “Much of their deployable military force has been sent to Europe and the Far East, where it will be destroyed once we launch the second part of our plan.  They have lost four of their carriers and dozens of smaller ships and they are trying desperately to hold on to what they can.  If you strike now…”

“We could reclaim our own destiny,” Fernandez proclaimed.  “You will provide the support you promised for the war?”

Jianfeng bowed his head.  “The units are already in position to avenge the American strike against our own mainland,” he said.  “All that is required is for you to push the Americans over the edge…and their power will be broken completely.”

He watched as Fernandez thought it through.  The urge for self-preservation was strong in him, but also the urge to go down in history as the great liberator of Latin America.  Like many others before him, Fernandez saw Latin American history as one of great opportunity, always squashed by the Americans to the north.  True independence was always just beyond their grasp, until now…and if that meant Fernandez becoming the greatest hero since Bolivar…

And yet, the last time that any American state had faced a western opponent, it had been a disaster.  Fernandez had to know just how badly Argentina had suffered since the Falklands War…and its economic problems had never been completely healed, even with much of the debt crisis ended.  The current war was costing Latin America badly…and they weren’t even fighting, yet.  Jianfeng watched as Fernandez’s mind played through all of the possibilities and smiled; whatever happened, Latin America would become involved in the war.  

“We will commit ourselves to the cause, provided you respect our limits,” Fernandez said finally.  “This day heralds the dawn of a new age.”

Jianfeng smiled.

Chapter One: Unholy War

Jakarta, Indonesia

“Hey, pretty girl, show us your body?”

The smell of spices and cooking drifted through the night air as Sujatmi approached the sealed area of the city.  The Chinese watching her weren’t real Chinese, but Chinese-Indonesians, the ones who had suddenly been swept to positions of real power within the nation.  Many of them were hybrids between the Chinese immigrants and the natives; some of them could have passed for Indonesian without problems.  Some of them were even Muslims…although they kept their heads down and tried not to be noticed.  The Mullahs had declared them all apostates…and the Chinese regarded Muslim converts as traitors.  The Chinese occupation force had placed them in real power…and they weren’t afraid to use it.

Sujatmi quickened her step.  She was walking directly towards the centre of the occupation, the mixture of buildings that had once served as the base of various dictators.  Sujatmi’s family had suffered under them; her family had once been rich, before Sukarno – and then Suharto – had taken their wealth for their own purposes.  The Mullahs had been worse; they had restricted Sujatmi and her sisters to their homes, and then the Chinese had taken over.  They had been the worst of all; they had taken the cities, crushed the fanatical defence force that had been preparing to land in Australia, of all places, and then they had placed the Chinese-Indonesians in control.  They had a lot of grudges to pay off…

A hand fell on her shoulder and yanked her backwards.  “I said, pretty girl, show us your card,” a harsh voice snapped, in Indonesian.  Sujatmi knew what he had in mind; he might or might not be a member of the militia that the Chinese had raised to support their conquest, but he had the right to demand to see her card.  If she failed to produce it, he would demand a price from her…and then he would have his fun with her anyway.  His friends were closing in around her; it was easy to seen frightened and terrified for whatever remained of her virtue.  “Now…or spend the rest of the night in the camps.”

Sujatmi’s shudder was real.  The Chinese had a simple solution to the problem of street crime; they threw everyone who committed a crime, including being rude to China, in a camp and then used them for slave labour.  Sujatmi had heard of camps that had been used to build massive bases right across the entire nation, or of women who had vanished into Chinese whorehouses and had never been seen again.  The Chinese soldiers were disciplined, but they also had an insatiable appetite for women.

His leer deepened.  “I think we’re in luck…”

Sujatmi pulled out her card.  “Here, sir,” she said.  Anything less than the fullest respect would land her in worse trouble.  “My card.”

The card had been obtained on her first visit to the security zone; she could only hope that her ‘patron’ had been right when he had claimed that it meant she would have access to the secured zone.  She felt the shock passing through her captor’s hand and smiled; whatever else happened, he wouldn’t recover quickly from the surprise.  The card had been issued by the Chinese themselves, under the impression that she was a General’s woman; her ‘owner’ had been quick to insist on her possessing such a card.  It wasn’t perfect – she would have preferred a card that allowed her to get out of the nightmare that her nation had been for years – but it would have to do.

One of her captor’s friends spoke in rapid-fire Chinese.  “Let her go,” he said.  “We can’t keep her or her…master will come for the slut and punish us.”

She could almost feel the thoughts ticking through her captive’s head.  An officer’s whore would be able to make real trouble for them; the Chinese tended to look down on the Chinese who had lived in Indonesia for years.  They could take her away, have their fun, and then she would be made to disappear…but then her patron would wonder what had happened to her.  It was harder for anyone to just leave the city now; he would suspect that something had happened to her and start looking for her.  Or, perhaps, he would just get another woman; there was no shortage of women who would sell themselves for a few nights of safety.

“Go to the secured zone and don’t let us see you again,” her captor said finally, and pushed her away from him.  Sujatmi kept her eyes down as she walked away, careful to avoid any swaying in her body; she didn’t want to tempt them to do something really extreme to her.  Her secret would be revealed then…and that would be bad.  Her patron wouldn’t save her; he would be lucky to be able to save himself.  Her would-be captors headed off to find other women to harass – they had free rein to do what they liked to the native Indonesians – and she walked down the long road to the secured zone.

The Chinese had declared a curfew over the city, but she could see a handful of people sneaking around, some of them traders, others trying to smuggle items through the night.  The Chinese would ignore some of them, others would find themselves in the camps before dawn; the Chinese had worked hard to overcome the problem of the slums.  There were still a few places in the city where it was dangerous for a lone Chinese to go, but the Chinese controlled all of the important places and dominated the population…and the secure zone was the heart of their power.

It was a walled city within the city, protected by crack Chinese troops and AFV vehicles.  Sujatmi knew better than to try to pass through without showing her card again; the guards would have shot her down without a thought.  There had been a handful of vehicle suicide bombings in the first year of the occupation and the guards were nervous – now, of course, there was no fuel for the cars, unless the Chinese supplied it.  Indonesia’s natural resources were no longer used for the good of any of her native population.

“Card, please,” the bored-looking guard said.  Anyone with permission to come and go as they pleased was someone not to annoy; the Chinese tended to treat the handful of Indonesians with that kind of permission with care.  Sujatmi passed over the card without comment, keeping her eyes low; she didn’t like Chinese men that much.  They reminded her, every time, of what she did to survive…and what she would one day do to them.  “You may pass…”

It was only the first part of the ordeal.  The guard pointed her towards a small hut, where she was carefully checked by a female orderly, who searched the contents of her bag as well as her body.  The guard was used to seeing her by now; the General who practically owned her was unique in enjoying real native food, which Sujatmi had to cook for him.  Her bag had ingredients she had purchased herself; the orderly, who was probably too ugly to ever win a man, knew nothing about cooking.  When she reluctantly waved Sujatmi into the inner complex, she slapped her behind, a reminder of her power.  Sujatmi wasn't inclined to argue.

The building in the centre of the complex had once been used for wealthy government ministers; it said something about the priorities of the mullahs that it hadn’t been pulled down during their brief period of control over the nation.  The first time Sujatmi had visited, even she had been amazed at the sheer luxury that had been the exclusive preserve of the ruling class.  The Chinese hadn’t made many changes at all, although one of them had told her that one of their civil affairs officers had rigged a fountain to spray Champagne instead of water; the thought had put her off drinking from one of the fountains for days.  The guards on the desk knew her; they just waved her into the elevator without bothering to search her or to check her card.

As soon as she entered the apartment, she checked through it as quickly as she could; her patron was still out at the meeting.  Something big was about to happen, but she had no idea what; her patron refused to tell her anything, even after a long night in bed.  He wasn't very demanding, Sujatmi knew; she was privately grateful.  Some of the other women in the compound had truly demanding patrons…and some of them had ended up dead.  All she – and the resistance – knew was that the Chinese were flooding more and more soldiers into Indonesia…and stepping up their anti-partisan operations.  Something was definitely changing, but what?

Her patron liked her in western clothes, so she changed quickly, pulling on a pair of jeans and a tight shirt, wearing only a bra under her shirt.  The first time she had worn the outfit, she had been ashamed; now, knowing what she did, she took a certain pride in the outfit.  It wasn’t what had been called for, but given what was about to happen, she wanted to wear it.  There would be something deeply…wrong about wearing traditional clothes and carrying out her orders.  She’d done everything she could to ensure that her family, what was left of it, would be safe; all that mattered now was carrying out her final task.

She muttered a prayer under her breath as she went into the kitchen.  The person who had first owned the apartment had hired a chef from Paris; she knew nothing about what half of the items in the kitchen even did.  Some of them, such as the sink and the refrigerator, had been made needlessly complicated; her patron had once referred to it as a ‘space-age’ device…and laughed.  She’d pretended not to understand the microwave, just to ensure that he didn’t get any ideas as to how intelligent she was, but there were items she really didn’t understand.  She didn’t need to know them to cook; she mainly just used the heating elements and a handful of other device.  Perversely, it reminded her of what her mother had used to do, before the mullahs, before she was disappeared.  Before…

Sujatmi rubbed a tear from her eye.  There wasn’t time.

“Sujatmi,” a voice said, from behind her.  She turned, lowering her eyes as she moved, to see her patron behind her.  He was unusually fit for a man his age – he had claimed to be over fifty – and tall, much larger than Sujatmi’s diminutive form.  He was Han Chinese, rather than a Chinese man who had spent years in Indonesia; he wasn’t even going white.  “We have guests tonight.”

Sujatmi bowed.  “There is to be a planning session here,” her patron continued.  She knew him as Li; he had never shared anything else about himself with her.  She suspected that he had a wife back in China; some of the girls believed that their Chinese would take them back one day, but Sujatmi knew that that would never happen.  “You will provide us with food, and then you will leave us.”

She knew what that meant; she would be spending the night in one of the female barracks.  She hadn’t spent a night there since her arrival at the complex; it was a nightmarish place for anyone, just because of the other women.  She would almost have preferred to have bunked down with the men.  The women had been beaten and abused; they were often sentenced to spend their last months with the common soldiers.

“Yes, My Lord,” she said.  He enjoyed her deference.  “Does My Lord have time for some relief before the session begins?”

She watched her face as it played out a complex series of emotions.  On one hand, he would probably have enjoyed some release before the meeting; on the other hand, he would have work to do before the senior officers arrived.  Whatever they were planning was big…and General Peng was not known for being kind and considerate to subordinates who forgot to do their homework.  A quick session would be possible, but…

“No, Sujatmi,” he said.  “You see to producing the food.”

There were times when it was harder to hate him.

The process of producing food quickly was easy; the harder task was in mixing other compounds together.  She felt nervous, more nervous than she had expected; somehow actually doing it was harder than she had thought.  It had taken weeks, ever since she had managed to regain her link to the resistance, to bring in all the components she needed; some of the items had been downright risky.  Li knew nothing about cooking, alhamdulilah; he would never know that some of the ingredients in her cupboards weren’t for cooking food.  He would never know…

She forced herself to focus on the task at hand.  The Chinese senior officers were all older men; the youngest that she had seen was forty.  None of them ate much, even of her cooking; their women said the same.  She prepared a simple dish for each of them, all the while inspecting her other pot; to the untrained eye, it looked like soup.  She’d been told that it could even be drunk safely, although she didn’t believe that; the resistance fighter who had told her that had made a really rude joke out of it.  Sujatmi had laughed dutifully; now she almost understood the joke herself.  It had been a long time since she had giggled like a schoolgirl, but she giggled now; she would finally take some control into her own hands.

There was a knock at the door.  She knew better than to let Li answer it; she was employed to serve as his maid as well.  She opened the door, revealing an older General and his bodyguard, who allowed his eyes to roam over her before stepping into the apartment.  Li greeted his old friend and waved the bodyguard to a chair outside; Sujatmi was surprised, despite herself.  Whatever they were going to discuss must be something very important.  It was a pity that the resistance had been unable to provide her with any surveillance devices, but they had been clear on the possible risks; if they detected the bugs, it wouldn’t take them more than a few seconds to pin down the spy and then she would be killed on the spot.

“Bring out the food to the dining room in twenty minutes,” Li instructed her, as the other senior officers arrived.  He would want to show her off to them as well as anything else.  She knew what that meant.  Li had few of the foibles of other men she’d met, but he liked to show off his skill with the women.  “Inform us that it is ready, and then you may go.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.  The Chinese officers shared smiles as she returned to the kitchen; there would be nothing else for her to do, apart from producing the food.  The bodyguards wouldn’t get any food themselves, just in case she had poisoned it, or so Li had claimed.  She suspected that it was more of a power play than anything else.  The Chinese practically venerated their older citizens.  “I will do as you command.”

It was a matter of a few moments to bring the food out; she had decided upon a simple meal, with a mixture of native and Chinese elements.  Li might have enjoyed a native meal, but the other Chinese might be less inclined to experiment; the last thing she needed, now, was to anger Li.  He might ruin her plans for the rest of the day…and that would be very bad.  She had already dismissed the thought of getting out alive, but she had dared to hope…

The dining room was large enough to seat twenty people comfortably; the seven senior officers would have plenty of room to stretch their legs around the vast western-style table.   She placed the dishes around the table, carefully placing the special dish in a cupboard, taking out the final ingredient and – nervously – dropping it into the soup-like ingredient.  It was an organic bomb, or so she had been told; there would be at least half an hour before the reaction reached the point where something would explode.  It had come from the West, something that proved that the resistance was no longer alone, whatever the Chinese had said.

“The meal is ready, My Masters,” she said, bowing deeply enough to let them see enough of her breasts.  The officers wouldn’t have been discussing anything too serious, just the careers of their male children.  China had officially banned the use of sex-selection drugs for their women, but all that had meant, in reality, was that anyone with the money or the clout to ignore the rules had sons.  Each one of the officers very definitely had that clout; she had even heard rumours that some of the missing women had been moved to China to marry men who had no wives.  “Please will you be seated?”

She waited long enough to ensure that Li had everything he needed, before kissing him goodbye and walking out of the apartment.  It was all she could do to avoid breaking into a run and fleeing for her life, but that would have brought every single guard in the secure zone down on her head.  The bodyguards kept their expressions blank as she took the elevator down towards the ground floor…and then she felt the entire building shake.  She realised in sudden horror what had happened – the bomb had gone off early – just before the cable snapped…and Sujatmi plunged down the lift shaft to her death.  The massive explosion brought the entire building crashing down in rubble, killing almost everyone in the building.

Allah Ackbar, she breathed, and died.

Chapter Two: Pause in the Storm

Cottbus, Occupied Germany

“General, we have Flatpacks on the port and starboard bow,” Captain Henri Guichy said, as the Eurocopter headed east towards Cottbus.  “I think they’re watching us.”

General Konrad Trautman, Supreme Allied Commander Europe, wasn’t surprised.  The Eurocopter was supposed to be a stealthy design, and indeed it was difficult for anyone to locate at short-range, but the command helicopter carried a transponder, bleeping out a constant update on their location for anyone to detect.  The Russians had insisted…and, as Trautman had been invited to discuss a truce, he had decided to risk using the transponder.  Not everyone had agreed; the commander of his own bodyguard had warned that Trautman was almost indispensable…and if the Russians had treachery planned, they might deal a crippling blow to EUROFOR and NATO.

Trautman had considered it, and known that Captain Paul Montagne was right, but in the end he had little choice.  The Russians had killed most of the governments of western Europe, including both Germany and France’s governments, but enough survived to ensure that the Russian steamroller was blunted, just enough to save part of Germany and France from Russian occupation.  The politics between the European Union and the United States had been growing poisonous for years, ever since Iraq; Europe had been treated to the odd spectacle of crowds cheering American defeat at Taiwan, despite the fact that thousands of European sailors had been killed in the same battle.  EUROFOR itself had been decapitated, but that, at least, hadn’t been a problem; EUROFOR was now a real army, defending its home soil.

There were times when Trautman thought that the Russians had done them a favour when they had taken out Brussels and the European Defence Commission.  Without the EDC and with a few years of peace, Trautman knew that he could have made Europe impregnable to a Russian attack, but the EDC had constantly refused to purchase the tanks and equipment that EUROFOR had needed.  They had been killed, now, but their legacy lived on; Trautman knew that EUROFOR was much weaker than he would have liked.  The presence of the American Third Corps had allowed him to liberate Berlin from the Russian encirclement, but there was no way that he could take the offensive any further…and now the Chinese had used nukes in the Far East.  The politics had turned even more poisonous…

The new EDC had insisted on a European as SACEUR, over American objections; Trautman had been the only person who could have held that post.  His second, General Geoffrey Bradford Wilkinson, was American…but if Trautman died, there would be a second political firestorm, and the lords and masters of Europe were terrified that the war might turn nuclear there too.  If Trautman died at the meeting, there would be a power struggle at the time the Russians would be launching another offensive; it could lead to EUROFOR being pocketed and destroyed.  Europe had once had vast armies; now, it had only a few divisions and thousands upon thousands of conscripts, some willing, some not.  It wasn’t enough, not yet.

“I think they want to be sure that we are not planning to engage in some impromptu intelligence gathering,” Trautman said, recalling his mind to the presence of the MIG-41 aircraft, flying nearby.  He had dared to hope that all of the Flatpack aircraft had been destroyed in the massive air battles that had raged over Germany and Europe, but clearly some had survived; the Russians had been moving more aircraft forward ever since the victory.  “Can you see anything interesting?”

Guichy said nothing.  Trautman had intended to recommend him for a promotion, along with the others who had served with him from Camp Warsaw to their current HQ, behind the frontlines.  That wasn’t possible, not now; someone within EUROFOR had leaked some of the details of the planned offensive to the Russians.  The results had been…unpleasant.  It had almost cost Trautman the victory.

In hindsight, it had been easy to see how the trick had been done; the Russians were masters at battlefield camouflage.  One of their B Category divisions had spent time pretending to be one of the dreaded Shock Armies, while the Shock Armies had emplaced themselves into positions to move against EUROFOR when the attack was launched.  Intelligence hadn’t noticed; they had known where the Shock Armies were located…and hadn’t looked further.  HUMINT was a major weakness…and there was no time for anything to be done about it.  Someone in EUROFOR had tipped the Russians off…and that person had to be found, quickly.

“There,” Guichy said.  The Frenchman sounded grim.  A plume of smoke was rising up to the north, near a known Russian position; something had happened.  The Russian FSB had taken over rear-area security for the Russians, bringing horrific techniques that had been developed in the Chechnya hellhole to the heart of Europe.  The Russians had broken the Chechnya resistance fighters; would they break the Germans and the Poles?  It had been too long since Europe had been in the heart of a major war.  “Sir?”

“Never mind,” Trautman said, harshly.  The Allied Governments had tried to discourage resistance, but some of the reports had been almost unimaginably horrifying, from the Russians engaging in mass rape to mass deportation.  The EUROFOR prisoners that had been captured during the chaotic early days of the fighting had vanished east, despite his hopes of liberating them; some of them had even been filmed begging for peace.  No one knew if the Indian offer of peace was sincere, but the world was holding its breath; the war had to end soon.  “Just some more people caught up in the eye of the storm.”

“That’s Cottbus,” the pilot said, very calmly.  He sounded nervous; for all of the Eurocopter’s stealth, it had very little chance against an armed fighter jet.  There were Eurofighters and F-22s on standby, on the other side of the battle lines, but not even the fastest fighter jet in the world could reach them in time to prevent the Russians from launching a missile at them, or spraying them with cannon fire.  “There are at least two Russian AWACS in the air, both trying to track us.”

Trautman muttered a curse, unsure just whom he was cursing.  The Europeans who had sold technology to Russia in exchange for Russian oil money?  The Japanese who had no choice, but to supply the Pact nations with high technology, or see their economy grind to a halt?  The thousands upon thousands of Chinese students who had studied in the West?  The Indians who had their own tech base…?  He had to deal with the results of nearly two decades of carelessness; the gap in capabilities was much smaller than he would have liked.  

“Show me,” he ordered.  They weren’t using active radars of their own, which prevented them from seeing any Russian aircraft that weren’t using their own radars, but the display built up rapidly.  There were seventeen active Russian radar sources…and one unknown contact.  He frowned.  “What’s that?”

The pilot queried EURONET.  “I think that’s a Chinese sensor aircraft,” he said, after a moment.  “That’s a Qing-B unit, only recorded in several American probes near the Chinese air defence network, prior to the truce.   Its full capabilities are unknown.”

“I see,” Trautman said, as Cottbus appeared below them.  “Keep recording; someone might be able to make something of it.”  He looked down at the battered city; Cottbus had been hammered by the Russians during the first wave of attacks, when they had stormed into Poland.  It hadn’t been fought for when the Russians had charged into Germany; Trautman had ordered much of the city evacuated to prevent the population from falling into Russian hands.  “Where are we landing?”

“The Russian beacon is there,” the pilot said.  His eyes narrowed as his flight helmet focused in on a helicopter sitting neatly in the heart of the city.  “I think that’s your counterpart.”

Trautman watched as the Eurocopter descended in the old Cottbus Altmarkt, the market square.  The last time he had visited, it had been packed with shoppers, now, the only visitors had arrived in a Mil Mi-24 attack helicopter, watching as the European helicopter landed.  Trautman remembered that the Russians called the Mil Mi-24 the flying tank; now, he understood why.  The Mil Mi-24 helicopters had taken part in the war, but it was much more understandable, looking at one at such close range.  Between the two landing zones, there was a table…and a man sitting there, watching them.

“Stay here,” Trautman said, as he climbed out of the helicopter.  There were few procedures for a direct parley between the two supreme military commanders in recent history; normally, they would only meet during surrender negotiations.  The Russian was dark-haired, shorter than Trautman himself, but very powerfully built.  He had been a boxer once, Trautman knew; Intelligence, at least, had been able to put together a dossier on the Russian.  “General Aleksandr Shalenko, I presume?”

“General Trautman, I presume,” Shalenko said.  His English was faintly accented.   “Thank you for coming; would you like a seat?”

Trautman scowled at him.  He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but it wasn’t this…surreal meeting in the middle of a war zone.  He took his seat and studied Shalenko with some interest; there were signs that the Russian had been in the middle of some sections of the fighting.  Shalenko was a genuine war hero, at least to the Russians; there was no question that he had actually done most of the things the Russians said he had done.  His dossier had been clear; Shalenko was a close personal friend of the Russian President…and that meant that Shalenko had much more authority than simple legalities would have suggested.

“We are both soldiers,” Shalenko said, as soon as Trautman had sat.  “I think that we owe it to our people to be blunt, rather than diplomatic; there is little time for horseshit here.  I shall endeavour not to take offence if you will try the same.”

Trautman nodded shortly.  “I can endeavour to make the same effort,” he said.  “Might I ask why you asked for this meeting?”

Shalenko shrugged.  “I must congratulate you on your masterful handling of the encounter in Poland,” he said.  “We believed that we had you at several points, but you made it out with much of your force intact.”

Trautman remembered those nightmarish days and shivered.  “You did well at Berlin,” he said.  He leaned forward.  “I can promise you political asylum and a billion euros if you tell me who provided the information to you.”

Shalenko grinned.  “Under other circumstances, I would try to play with your head a little,” he said.  “I like to think that we can get along better than our lords and masters.”

“Yes,” Trautman said.  He hadn’t expected it to work.  “Under whose authority are you present here?”

“I am here under the direct authority of the President of the Russian Federation,” Shalenko said shortly.  “This meeting is something of a secret in Russia.  Yourself?”

“The European Defence Commission,” Trautman said.  He leaned forwards.  “What do you want?”

Shalenko’s eyes glittered.  “As you know, the Pact of Opposition has made an offer of peace to your side, as we have accomplished most of our policy aims,” he said.  “American power in the Far East has been broken, American dominance in the Middle East has been crippled, and…well, you know what happened here…”

“You invaded and your forces have been committing war crimes behind the lines,” Trautman snapped.  He saw a flicker of pure rage, not directed at him, on Shalenko’s face.  The rumours that Shalenko and the FSB were at odds had clearly some elements of truth to it.  “We will see the people responsible punished for that.”

Shalenko looked tired.  “I wish you luck,” he said.  “You may or may not be aware that there are back channel discussions going on between the Pact and NATO; being diplomats, they have almost decided on the shape of the table and in a month or so, they might just have agreed on what they’re going to drink during the discussions about discussions.”  Trautman snorted.  “My President is very keen that there are no…incidents that might ruin matters during the ceasefire.”

Trautman leaned forwards.  “Then rein in your dogs,” he snapped.  “You have FSB security forces chasing refugees into my lines, and then we have a shootout, which rapidly becomes more than just a shootout, but a major confrontation.”

Shalenko’s face darkened.  “The FSB security forces are not under my command any longer,” he said.  He paused, just long enough for Trautman to realise that he was being deadly serious.  “There are…political issues here, after Warsaw; there is a strong school of thought that the Poles cost us the chance to crush EUROFOR.”

“They didn’t,” Trautman said.  He’d been there, after all; he’d seen the battle.  He’d commanded the opposing force.  “You had everything you needed to push us back to the Elbe.”

Fleetingly, he wondered if he was right, or what might have happened if he had had the reinforcements he was supposed to have, under the pre-war procedures.  Alternate histories had always fascinated him; what would have happened if the Europeans had been able to mass everything along the borders?  He was grimly sure that he would have been able to block the Russians, perhaps even break their main attack and throw them back into Poland.  What if…?

He shook his head.  It didn’t matter.

“There are people who lack our military experience,” Shalenko said.  For a long moment, their thoughts were one; politicians, for example.  “There are also people willing to take advantage of this to carry out their own agenda…”

“Such as the FSB,” Trautman said.

“Such as the FSB,” Shalenko agreed.  “Such as the neo-conservatives.  Such as the European Defence Committee.  Such as…but what does that matter to us?  I can try to rein them in, if you are prepared to make a commitment that I can take back to the President and…”

“If you want a ceasefire, move your forces back ten kilometres,” Trautman snapped.  “My lords and masters won’t let me chase you all the way back to Russia…”

“We will pull back five kilometres,” Shalenko said.  Trautman lifted an eyebrow; that was more than he had dared hope for.  “In exchange, we want you to remain where you are, leaving a space between the battle lines.”

Trautman studied him for a long moment.  He had no doubt at all – call it a soldier’s instinct – that he could trust Shalenko to keep the agreement; the question was if Shalenko would be in a position to keep the agreement.  Like him, Shalenko had to answer to political masters, who might order him to break the agreement…or relieve him and place someone else in command.  It was a ceasefire…and one that might not last; there was no way that the European Union would grit it’s teeth and accept the permanent occupation of half of it’s territory.

“That is acceptable, for now,” he said finally.  “We will also refrain from engaging your forces as they withdraw.”

Shalenko smiled thinly.  “Does that include forces behind the lines?”

“We have no control over such forces,” Trautman said.  It was a half-truth, at best; there were still units from the Polish Army and even some Germans running around behind the lines and trying to harass the Russians.  “I need to ask you something; what is happening to the prisoners you took?”

Shalenko showed no surprise at the question.  “Are you considering a prisoner exchange?”

“That was one of the possible options,” Trautman said.  He also knew that the Russians would refuse; they would be trading people Europe could barely replace for their own men, of which they had plenty.  “What’s happening to them?”

“They’re being moved east to a camp, counting trees,” Shalenko said softly.  “They won’t be harmed, but there will be no exchange until we have a proper peace treaty.”

Trautman met his eyes.  “If they are mistreated, we will see the people responsible hanging from a tree,” he said.  It wasn’t an idle threat; a handful of insurgents from Paris and the south of France who had been proven responsible for the uprisings had been hung by the French.  The Human Rights Act had been quietly forgotten.  It was amazing what war did for such considerations.  “Please don’t forget.”

“I won’t,” Shalenko said, equally quietly.  “The withdrawal will begin tomorrow, long enough for you to warn your forces…”

***
General Aleksandr Shalenko watched grimly as General Trautman stepped into his helicopter, preparing to head back to his own HQ.  He didn’t have a signed statement from the German, but somehow he trusted him to keep his word, even though Trautman gave him the creeps.  The blonde tall German had reminded him far too much of Russia's nightmares; so much had been inflicted on Russia by the Germans that Germany’s resurgence was a nightmare given flesh.  Shalenko knew, better than Trautman ever had, who had started the war…and yet there was the nagging sense that sooner or later they would have been facing one another anyway.

The flight back to his own headquarters was short and quick; the Hind landed well away from the main HQ, just in case the NATO forces were trying to track it.  Shalenko would not have been surprised; some of the estimates for NATO’s capabilities had been underestimates, often by quite a large margin.  It was the damnable Americans again, he was sure; there just hadn’t been time for a total reboot of Russia’s economy.  Whatever they had done…

He stepped out of the helicopter and almost walked into two men.  He saw the green tabs on their shoulders and winced inwardly, keeping his face very blank.  They were FSB, from the Political Directorate; they were bad news.  Their faces were almost identical; their eyes were dead.  Shalenko met their eyes, drawing all his authority around him, and they looked surprised.  Defiance was not something that they were used to facing.

One stepped forward.  “General Shalenko?”

“Yes,” Shalenko said shortly.

“You have been summoned back to Moscow for consultations,” the FSB man said.  “You are ordered to come with us at once.”

Shalenko faced him down.  “I have to ensure that my second is aware of what’s happening, and then I will come with you,” he said.  The irony was chilling; he could have shot them both down before they could react, but that would have meant committing treason.  “Patience is a virtue.”

The FSB man said nothing.

Chapter Three: Talking About Talks

Washington DC, USA

“In short, Mr President,” Joan Davidson said, “the Pact has finally agreed to our choice of a conference site for the talks.”

David Simmons watched from the corner of the room as the Secretary of State continued to brief the President.  “They wanted to hold the original set of talks in Delhi, but that was politically unacceptable to us, so we asked for London or Washington, which they rejected.  Geneva seems to be the compromise option; the UN is completely out of the picture.”

Simmons nodded to himself.  The United Nations had almost completely collapsed under the stresses caused by the war.  The Security Council had been torn apart by the fighting; every permanent member and many of the rotating members were involved in the fighting.  The UN’s tiny resources were utterly spent; there was not only fighting in Europe, the Middle East and the Far East, but fighting spreading across Africa.  It made defeating the Pact much more important; their proxies in Africa would put the world’s greatest treasure trove of natural resources in their hands.  People expected the UN to end the war, but the blunt truth was that it was the enforcers doing much of the fighting.

“Geneva,” the President said.  “Who do we have coming from their side?”

“The Chinese and Indians have not yet announced their members, although there is some speculation that the Indians will actually send Singh himself,” Joan said.  Simmons doubted it; the Indian Prime Minister had good reason to hate America.  He had spent the years since the destruction of Delhi fomenting the war.  “The Russians will be sending Fedya Molotin, their foreign minister.”

“And everyone on our side wants to send a representative,” the President said.  “Can we trust them?”

General Armstrong coughed.  “The Pact has not engaged any of our forces in the Far East directly since the offer of a peace conference was accepted,” he said.  “At the same time, both the Russians and the Indians have been taking the time to reinforce their own forces in the Middle East, and Europe.  It will be a long time before we fully trust signals information again, but we have clear evidence that the Russians have moved several more divisions into Europe and several units into Iran.  Between the Indians and the Russians, Iran has more or less fallen…and we might not be able to stop them invading Iraq.”

The irony was chilling.  The United States had more or less built the current Iraqi state, but now older wounds were being reopened as thousands of refugees fled from Iran, into Iraq.  The forces required to fight the war on three fronts simply didn’t exist; the commitment to Europe meant that the war in the Middle East would have to be fought on a shoestring.  Worse, the chaos in Saudi and Iraq meant that allied forces were much weaker than anyone wanted, apart from the new governments.  Saudi’s new government hadn’t wanted to risk giving the princes a stick to beat them with, but the price for that was that Saudi was almost defenceless.

The President nodded.  “And our own reinforcements?”

“We have six carriers now in the Far East,” Armstrong said.  The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs checked his palmtop quickly.  “The Chinese are still patrolling their own waters aggressively, but what happened at Guam spooked a lot of nations that might have been expected to be out allies.  The Philippines, for example, are trying to remain out of the fighting.  The Chinese are keeping their forces on alert near Taiwan, but it doesn’t seem likely that they can push across the waters after Operation Vengeance.  Unless they want to start a nuclear exchange with Taiwan…”

Simmons frowned.  The Taiwanese had nukes of their own; the new government had pledged to use them if the Chinese launched a nuclear strike.  The death of their popular President had started the war, the American strike against China had prevented an invasion, but everyone knew that it was only a matter of time before something happened to break the stalemate.  The United States was weaker than it had ever been…and there were real problems in building back up to pre-war strength.

“…Their only option continues to be the blockade on Taiwan,” Armstrong continued, unaware of Simmons’ thoughts.  “Several Japanese and Korean ships have been sunk by Chinese missiles after they entered the declared exclusion zone; the Taiwanese Navy has been unable to prevent such attacks, which means that few nations will send ships to Taiwan.  In the meantime, the Chinese have cut the supplies from Indonesia…and have actually been shipping in thousands of additional soldiers after losing some of their command staff to a suicide bomber.  This has not made the Australians very happy; they have been demanding that we send them additional support, but…”

Simmons mentally studied the map in his head and nodded.  Much of Guam had been destroyed by the Chinese nuclear attack, which had crippled the USN’s base beyond easy repair.  Australia could base some of the American ships, but there were few other possible bases with Japan and Korea remaining on the sidelines.  At a stroke, the Americans had been forced back on Pearl Harbour; it was fortunate that the USN was expert at operating a long distance from their bases.

“In short,” Armstrong concluded, “they are clearly positioning themselves for a resumption of hostilities.  If the peace talks break down, they could take the offensive again very quickly.”

“I see,” the President said.  “What about our own reinforcements?”

“We have moved several more units to Europe, totalling a hundred thousand men and nearly a thousand tanks,” Armstrong said.  “They might be under overall European command” – his face darkened; the President had overruled his own insistence that an American remain in overall command – “but they’re a formidable force.  The main problem lies in air power; the Europeans never had our vast numbers of aircraft and far too many were lost on the first day.  We have upwards of seven hundred aircraft, mainly air supremacy and ground support aircraft, in the region, but we really don’t need losses.

“The Middle East now has several divisions digging in along the Iran-Iraq border,” he continued.  “CENTCOM is confident that they can harass the Indians or the Russians, who seem to be concentrating on securing Iran before they do anything else, but it won’t be long before they come for Iraq.  No one is going to make Saddam’s mistake, even though we have much less in position to hold them when they come.  The Iraqis are providing us with all the support they can – the horror stories from the occupied regions have helped there – but we’re still going to have real problems.”

He paused.  “And, of course, we have no ground contact with the Chinese at all,” he concluded.  “We can only fight it out on the waters, unless we proceed with the Indonesian option.”

“Which opens its own can of worms,” the President said.  The public – or Congress – would not respond well to a suggestion that the President should fund and support radical Islamic groups, no matter how much success they’d had. The Indonesian resistance might have managed to kill many Chinese senior officers, but they were still fundamentalists and memories of the Terror War remained strong.  “What did Admiral Toland have to say?”

Armstrong’s face twitched.  Toland had been in command during the disastrous Battle of Taiwan.  “He thinks that unseating the Chinese and Indians from their control over Indonesia might be the first step in knocking the Chinese down a peg or two,” he said.  “If we can liberate them, which means establishing control over the sea lanes, we can supply the Japanese ourselves, perhaps even bringing them into the war on our side.  If we can do that…”

“Then the naval war would be within shouting distance of being won,” the President concluded.  He stared down at his hands for a long moment.  The Japanese had long memories and long reasons to fear China, but they were dependent upon the supplies that were sent to them by the Chinese, forcing them to supply the Chinese with high technology, some of it even matching American technology.  “That would still leave the problem of mounting attacks on the Chinese mainland.”

“We would still be in a strong position,” Joan pointed out.  “Perhaps even accept a compromise peace that favours us.”

“Perhaps,” the President agreed.  He stood up, ending the meeting.  “Mr Simmons, would you remain behind for a moment.”

Simmons remained in his seat as the President examined the plasma display hanging on one wall in the Oval Office.  It was currently displaying a list of worldwide military operations, allowing the President to access information on what each and every military unit was doing, from ships at sea to commando groups operating behind enemy lines.  The President had used it, from time to time, for private conferences with world leaders; Simmons, who had returned from England for the meeting, waiting patiently for the President to notice him.

“Your thoughts, Mr Simmons?”

Simmons took a moment to compose himself.  “I think they’re wasting our time,” he said, frankly.  “This…offer of a peace conference seems a little…odd.”

The President frowned.  “What makes you say that?”

“They offer the discussions almost as soon as we punch through their lines and go for Berlin,” Simmons said.  “Tactically, that battle was almost a draw; only Third Corps and our air supremacy allowed us to push the Russians back.  At the same time, they use nukes, which allows us to strike back at them, using nukes ourselves, which is…”

“Worrying,” the President said shortly.  There had been panic on the streets when the first nukes had detonated; the thousands of deaths had left the country very angry.  The destruction of the Chinese naval base in Vietnam hadn’t made up for it in their eyes.  “Why do you think that this is a waste of our time?”

“The Pact has three major countries involved,” Simmons said, stating common knowledge.  “The Chinese and the Russians make a strong effort to keep their people from hearing news from outside, but they can’t possibly have any real success, can they?  The Internet might have taken a beating and the satellites might have been damaged, but there’s still an entire torrent of information for their citizens to note.  It could be that they want time to regain control…and the Indians don’t have anything like that sort of infrastructure.  They’ve had anti-nuclear demonstrations of their own…”

“True,” the President agreed.  “They’ve still not told their own people about the peace talks.”

“Neither have we,” Simmons pointed out.  “They insisted on that, which is curious; it would be a real propaganda boost to their cause, even after Guam.  If they wanted a peace conference, why not shout it to the skies?”

“Because they don’t want many of us to know,” the President said slowly.

“Exactly,” Simmons said.  “What are we prepared to agree to for the war to end?  Will we accept the permanent occupation of Poland?  A Russian sphere of control in Iran?  Chinese control over Taiwan?”

“Over my dead body,” the President snapped.  “There are a dozen senators and congressmen who would turn at the merest hint of a sell-out to the Russians, or the Chinese, or even the Indians.  Ten years ago, we might have been able to accept a Russian occupation of Iran, but now…?”

“Ten years ago, if the Russians had hung the Mullahs, the American public would have donated the rope,” Simmons said.  “They’re stalling for time, Mr President; time to prepare themselves for Round Two.”

The President tapped the display, which altered itself to display the European Front.  “They’re mad,” he said.  “They can’t win the war.”

Simmons shrugged.  “If they can break our lines in Europe, they would have a good chance of winning that part of the war,” he said.  “Economically, they have already damaged us, but if they overrun Europe, it will make it almost impossible for the situation to be recovered.”

The President winced.  “Economics?”

“The figures are fairly clear,” Simmons said reluctantly.  He had never enjoyed economics when he had studied them in college.  “President Rupertson might have done us a favour when he gave up much of the debt from Africa and Latin America, but not all of it was surrendered; it would have destroyed his Presidency years before Delhi.  The net result of that was that plenty of debts have been defaulted on, which sent shockwaves through our economy, and…

“I could go on and on,” he said.  The President snorted.  “We had a major panic after Taiwan, both because some people thought that we could lose the war completely, and because of a patriotic backlash aimed at Chinese-owned businesses.  Some of them went under in the economic chaos, which hurt us worse, and then the Russians invaded Poland, which meant that we lost most of those investments to the panic.”  He shrugged.  “In the end, we have a seriously damaged economy, which is going to hurt us.”

He called up the figures for the President to see.  “We have two Ford-class carriers under construction at the moment,” he said.  “They might be completed within the year if we really push it and ignore little details like safely precautions and OSHA rules.  It takes much longer than anyone would like to build a modern jet fighter, and we have to pay for it somehow, which taxes our economy still further.  Bottom line, this is very much a ‘come as you are’ war…and we don’t have the reserves we need to fight in all of the combat zones.”

The President nodded.  “I seem to recall that I signed a lot of papers authorising the use of every plant we have for producing weapons,” he said.  “How much can we gain from that?”

“Less than we would like,” Simmons admitted.  “The Russians are firmly emplaced across Europe, which limits our own options; they can’t be made to leave without a major military operation.  These aren’t Iraqis, Mr President; these are soldiers who are generally tough, competent and well led.  The Poles and the others trying to fight the Russians in an underground war might be able to hurt them, but I don’t think that they can force them out, which means that we will have little choice, but to reinforce Europe to the greatest possible extent…and then attack from there.  Such an operation would be…costly.”

“I’ve seen the plans,” the President said.  Simmons felt a moment of pity; the Joint Chiefs had dreamed up plans that would have recreated the worst of World War Two in the heart of Europe, a major operation that would have forced their way all the way to Moscow.  It would have required a several-million man conscript army, something that would take years to raise, and years more to supply.  It was a wargamer’s fantasy, but there might be no other choice.  “Is there no hope of a silver bullet?”

Simmons shook his head.  “There are plenty of newer tricks that might come in handy, but I don’t think that we will find a silver bullet.  One possibility, however, has been developed; an orbital bombardment system.  It’s banned by several treaties, but if we were to build it and deploy it, we would be able to hit right at the heart of the Pact.”

The President considered it for a long moment.  “I want a full briefing,” he said.  “What about the Europeans?”

Simmons scowled.  He had had a full briefing from Major General Marco Lineman and the English General Peter Templeton on the subject.  It wasn’t good news.

“They’re running short of supplies,” he said.  “EUROFOR did some good work between its conception and Poland, but they never prepared for a war on this scale, even with some of the warning signs…all of which were misinterpreted, or ignored.  The French and the British have been reactivating older tanks and aircraft, which actually reduces their combat effectiveness as the older Tornado and Mirage aircraft are no match for MIG-29 aircraft, let alone the later Russian designs.  The same goes for their tanks; they’re much better than nothing, but the Russian heavy tanks will have the advantage.

“Like us, the French and Germans have started a conscription program,” he continued.  “The British haven’t yet started a major program, but we expect that they will have little choice, but to start one soon.  None of them have the weapons in the quantities required to actually arm the conscripts; some of the German units have actually been armed with AK-47s taken from terrorist cells and drilled on them.  They’ve been screaming for guns from us, but…we don’t have the guns to arm all of our own new units, let alone theirs.  We were caught with our pants down, Mr President; a lot of the factories and supplies we had during the Cold War were run down or closed when that conflict ended, and much of our build-up during the Terror War was designed to fight an insurgency war, not an all-out war in our own backyard.”

The President nodded.  “So all we can do is wait for the newer units to come online?”

Simmons nodded.  “They’re trying to stall us, and it gives us an opportunity to stall them,” he said.  “That’s time, time we need to plot out the targets for Vengeance II, time we need to prepare to hurt the Russians and the Chinese, time we need to locate all of the targets in India that we need to hammer to convince the Indians that perhaps supporting the Pact is a Bad Idea.”

He leaned forward.  “All we need is a little time.”

The President frowned.  “Politics, Mr Simmons, will ensure that we don’t have that time,” he said.  “We need a quick victory.”

Simmons met his eyes.  “We’re not going to get one,” he said.  “Mr President, this war is going to last a long time.”

Chapter Four: Mexican Stand-Off

Near Mexico City, Mexico

From high above, Mexico looked peaceful and tranquil, even to the eyes of its President.  He had invested in the luxury jumbo jet without hesitation when he had first seen it, a magnificent flying palace and command post that had cost a sizeable portion of Mexico’s annual funds.  He hadn’t been able to resist, not least because he knew that anyone launching a coup would want the aircraft for themselves, therefore preventing them from just using a Mexican fighter jet to shoot him down.  The American President had Air Force One; the President of Mexico was determined to match the Americans in at least one respect.

It was the Americans that occupied his thoughts as his massive aircraft headed towards the Presidential Airport, outside the city.  The Americans, who absorbed thousands of productive Mexicans who had no hope of a real life in Mexico itself; the President was quietly relieved that that happened, saving him from the rage of thousands of otherwise frustrated young men.  The Americans, who demanded that he prevented his young men from leaving, despite the fact that they helped the Americans as much, perhaps more, as they helped him.  The Americans, who had stationed a small army of their National Guard along the borders and made frequent incursions into Mexico to catch drug lords and terrorists, often one and the same.  The Americans, who had Mexico by the short and curlies, even to the point of threatening Mexico if the Mexicans purchased their weapons from elsewhere, while refusing to sell Mexico the weapons it needed.

The President considered himself a proud man, as well as a patriot.  He might have taken the opportunity for graft as much as any other President in Mexico, but he liked to think that he had made a difference to the living standards of his people.  And yet, there were still the Americans on the far side of the Rio Grande, taunting him with their siren call to young Mexicans and their hypocritical insistence on human rights.  Did they not understand that there were factions in his country, in all of Latin America, who had been seduced by Venezuela’s call for a pan-Latin American revolution?  Did they not understand that every time they forced him into making a humiliating concession, they gave a thousand new recruits to the underground, who hated America at the same time as they sent thousands of immigrants into the United States?

The drug lords hadn’t been slow to take advantage of the new trend; they saw America as their chief customer and their worst enemy.  They had already been developing their own private armies to keep their workers in line, even as the Mexican Army was enfeebled still further by the Americans, and arming anti-Americans to serve them had been easy.  There were thousands of private soldiers in Mexico now; the President was all-too-aware that perhaps it was time to cut and run with his Swiss bank account.  Only the magnificent luxury of his post, and his real love for his country, kept him in place; his successor would almost certainly be worse.

And then the Third World War had broken out.  Young Mexicans had cheered the Pact’s victories, even as thousands of young men had taken advantage of the opportunities offered by the United States Army; citizenship for military service.  The President had felt his blood stirring as like nothing before, even when he had first lost his virginity at fourteen to a young prostitute.  Watching America humiliated had fired the blood of thousands, but it didn’t change the eternal power balance between America and the rest of…well, America.  The United States had prevented any major opposition movement from developing by keeping the remainder of America weak…and the President had no doubt what would happen if he ordered the Mexican Army across the Rio Grande.  After the Army was finally moving – far too much equipment had been sold on the black market – the Americans would crush it, probably without even noticing the effort.  The Americans would be fighting their favourite type of battle, the one that gave them all the advantages…and the demands that Mexico become involved in the war would lead to inevitable defeat.

“Your Excellency, we are nearing the airport,” his aide said.  She was young; the President liked them young these days.  His wife didn’t mind; she had tired of his sexual demands once she had produced two young boys for her family.  It had been an arranged marriage, trading influence for influence…and an unattractive woman for his bed.  “The convoy is ready for you.”

“Come here,” the President said.  He needed something to take his mind off the problem.  She didn’t argue; she knew her place in his world.  “We have plenty of time for anything we would want to do.”

***
The President of Mexico, rumour had it, had built the airport specially for his massive jumbo jet; Sanchez almost believed it the first time he looked down at the airport from their position, well hidden from view.  The runway had been extended for even larger aircraft; the old Mexico City International Airport just hadn’t been good enough for him.  The main air transportation network was overloaded, despite all the government could do, but the President got a massive airport all to himself…and his government.  The sheer scale of the luxury was almost unbelievable; Mexico had one of the largest birth-rates in the world…and, no matter what the government said about the endless rise in living standards, far too many lived in poverty.

Sanchez checked the weapon as he watched the aircraft through its scope, waiting for the most optimum firing moment.  Mexico City was vast, large enough to hide any number of problems from outside observers, such as the slums that had given birth to Sanchez and his team.  He had attempted, twice, to cross the border into the United States, but in both cases the Gringos had taken one look at him and forced him back over the border.  Like so many others, Sanchez had no hope; no job, no life, nothing…but an endless struggle for survival.  When the Movement had found him, he had been a willing recruit to their cause, yet another fighter determined to bring down the rich who barely thought about the thousands of poor men and women ground under their feet.  The Movement had made it clear to him; the skyscrapers and towers of Mexico City had been built on the blood and tears of the poor, funded by American money.  The Americans were to blame for all of Mexico’s problems…

…But the Americans were weak.  Look at Vietnam, his instructors had told him, even while grooming him for the mission.  Sanchez had believed them, and even if part of him had warned him that he wanted to believe them, he had believed what they had told him.  The Americans were vast and powerful when it wasn’t their blood at stake, but let the train of dead bodies start coming home, draped in the American Flag, and it would be a different story.  The Movement had told him that the entire world was going to war against the Americans, and the only hope for Mexican freedom was a People’s War, one that would force the Americans to fight the Mexicans on their own ground.  The Chinese had already struck the Americans a major blow; now, it was the job of the Mexicans to hurt the Americans enough to make them forsake Mexico once and for all.

“Sanchez,” his friend said, pointing.

Sanchez nodded.  The presence of the Mexican F-16 fighters wasn't a major problem; he would have been more worried about assault helicopters.  The Mexican Army was riddled with corruption and drug money – anyone with any real competence was offered enough money to bribe Superman to work for the drug lords - but they had plenty of weapons. A flight of helicopters, used competently, could have pinned them down, perhaps in time to prevent him from completing his mission.

“Check the escape route,” he said.  They were committed now; the President’s aircraft had come right over the city, heading towards the airport, and their only chance to act was coming right at them.  “Move, damn it!”

He could see the aircraft through the handheld missile launcher’s scope; the system bleeped an acknowledgement as it locked onto the President’s aircraft.  The battery, he had been warned, wouldn’t last long; there was no time to waste.  The passive heat sensor shouldn’t be detectable, but the Americans were fucking clever when it came to technology; he had found that out on his second attempt to slip into America.  The time was now; he pulled the trigger and felt the missile launching itself from the tube, climbing upwards towards the aircraft.

He felt his mouth fall open as the missile rose towards its target.  The streak of fire seemed to be carrying all the hopes and fears of Mexico with it; time seemed to slow down as it lanced upwards, heading right for the target.  There was no time for it to be deflected or defeated; the only possibility had been one of the escorts sacrificing itself to save the President, and Sanchez had known that that wouldn’t happen.  The missile exploded with a thunderous crash and…

***
The President’s aide had been wiping her mouth.  She had grown much better at using her mouth in the months she had spent with him, just because she disliked actually taking him inside her cunt.  The President wasn't complaining; he preferred it that way, just to avoid creating any bastards…

The alarms shrilled and the President glanced out of the porthole, just in time to see a thunderous blast of fire as the missile struck one of the wings.  There wasn’t any time to react; the President had spent enough time in the air force – before the far more lucrative career of politician had called to him – to know that they were dead.  Flames lashed along the wing as the aircraft destabilised and fell out of the sky; it’s massive airframe cracking under the sudden stress.  Part of the President’s mind was grimly amused; I will have to ensure that that is covered by the insurance…

He reached out for his aide and held her tightly as the aircraft struck the city, smashing into a skyscraper.  The citizens below, staring up at the falling craft, had no chance at all; the aircraft came down before any of them could do more than run a few meters.  The explosion devastated the entire section of the city, slaughtering thousands of people, many of them rich and working to try to help Mexico.

The President died before he could even think of the possible consequences of his death.

***
Sanchez had picked the firing point with care, not least because it had dozens of little modifications that had never been approved of by the Building Standards Office, which was as corrupt as any other department in the Mexican Government.  Over the years since an American corporation had built the massive building, other buildings had been built closer and closer to it, to the point where when it had been abandoned, it was only the centre of a massive maze that held thousands of homeless people.  The Movement had hundreds of friends within the building; none of the men or women would betray them to the police.

The entire complex shuddered as the plane impacted; it dawned on Sanchez that he had run the massive risk of the aircraft coming down right on top of them.  Shockwaves ran through the building, shaking it, causing him to lose his footing and stumble.  He picked himself up and ran past a dozen prostitutes, many of them still children.  The rich used them for their kicks, some of them under the impression that sleeping with a child-girl would bring back their potency; few of them cared about the massive rise in AIDS and other diseases through the slums.  He could hear the noise of fighting on the streets now, as other teams went into operational mode; he knew that more had been planned than he had ever been told about.  Operational secrecy had had to be maintained…

They’d pre-positioned a van, one of thousands of the American-designed blue vans, just outside.  Sanchez jumped outside – they’d discarded most of their weapons inside the building – and the driver hit the gas, sending them careening away from the building.  He glanced behind him at the growing flames where the aircraft had crashed and smiled in awe; there was no way that even the richest man could escape such a crash.

The streets were packed with people, some trying to help, and others trying to use the chaos as an opportunity for crime.  The protests would spread rapidly out of control, he guessed; what would start as an anti-American protest would rapidly become a riot, and then a civil war.  He glanced over in the direction of the American embassy, wondering what the Americans had made of it all; they might even wonder if their own CIA had somehow caused the President’s airliner to crash.

He smiled as they vanished into the streets.  It had been a good day.

***
The explosion sent Ambassador Lucius Hevrin to his knees; his bodyguard, a tough-looking Marine, pushed him right down to the ground as bullets raked through the roof of the embassy.  Hevrin wanted to protest, but knew that the Marine was merely doing his job, protecting the Ambassador.  Ten minutes ago, he had been working at his desk, preparing for a meeting with the Mexican President, when there had been a thunderous explosion.  He had ignored the Marine’s advice and gone to the roof, where he had seen the flames spreading rapidly through part of the city, and then there had been a second explosion, right next to the embassy.  Incredible as it seemed, the embassy was under attack.

“Mr Ambassador, keep your fucking head down,” the Marine shouted.  Stunned and dazed, Hevrin could barely realise that the Marine was screaming at him.  Bullets were still cracking over his head as the Marine started to drag him back towards the door; an aide appeared in the door…and her head exploded as a sniper’s bullet struck her and blew her backwards.  Hevrin screamed as red blood splashed over his body; the Marine seemed unconcerned as he pushed the body aside and they crawled towards the hatch.

“In,” the Marine pushed, forcing him in.  There was a moment’s respite as the Marine pulled the door firmly closed…and then bullets started to bounce off the door.  The door had been built to resist an antitank round, but the way the building was shaking, Hevrin wouldn’t have been surprised to hear that they were under attack from a force of tanks.  “Move!”

Hevrin went down the stairs, two at a time, and encountered several more Marines, coming up.  “Ambassador, the Embassy is under attack,” Captain Anecelle said.  He sounded absurdly calm as more explosions shook the building.  “We have to get you into the shelter, now!”

Hevrin didn’t argue.  “Coming,” he said, as Captain Anecelle waved two of the Marines down the backstairs, checking that the coast was clear.  “Who’s attacking us?”

“Fuck knows,” Captain Anecelle said.  “One moment everything is peaceful, the next, some bastard has detonated an entire set of truck bombs around the embassy and we’re being stormed by ninjas in black outfits.”

Hevrin struggled to comprehend.  “Ninjas?”

Captain Anecelle opened his mouth to answer…but was cut off by a heavy burst of fire.  One of the lead Marines fell back, a gaping hole in his head; the other pulled a grenade off his belt and tossed it back down the stairs.  “Back up, Mr Ambassador,” Captain Anecelle said grimly.  “Steve?”

“I can’t get a link to any Mexican cops,” a burly black Marine said.  “Sir, the link to SIPRNET or NIPRNet is working, but no one seems to be able to respond.”

“Fuck it,” Captain Anecelle swore, as they inched back up the stairs.  A burst of automatic fire made them all flinch.  “They’re everywhere on the ground floor and they took out the helicopter in their first shot…”

Hevrin stared at him.  “There’s no one to negotiate with?”

“We don’t even know who they are,” Captain Anecelle protested.  Hevrin heard a window shattering somewhere in the distance, a sudden silence broken by more heavy fire being focused on the Embassy.  “Mr Ambassador, standing orders are to get you the hell out of any disturbance, but there’s nowhere to take you…”

“The secure room,” Hevrin said.  “What about…”

“There’s nowhere to get out from there,” Captain Anecelle said.  Hevrin nodded in understanding; the secure room might be secure, but it wouldn’t let them out.  “We could try to hold out for a while, but eventually we would run out of food and…”

Another explosion, much larger than any others, rocked the building.  Hevrin had a moment to realise that the roof was coming down…and then he threw himself out of the way as chunks of the roof came down on their heads.  One of the Marines was gasping in pain, blood pouring from his arm, but he held his weapon with one hand, looking for targets.  Hevrin forced his hand to pick up one of the fallen pistols; he realised with a shock that one of the chunks of roof had crushed Captain Anecelle’s head.

“Sir?”

The wounded Marine was looking up at him.  “Sir, get out of here,” he said.  Captain Anecelle’s body drew Hevrin’s eyes; somehow, he couldn’t connect the bloody mass with the tough Marine.  His brain was dazed, refusing to work; he hefted the pistol without really understanding it.  The Ambassador was supposed to have some weapons training, but all he had fired at had been targets on the firing range.  “Sir…”

A figure appeared around the corner.  Hevrin understood, in that moment, what had been meant by Ninjas; the figure was dressed in a black outfit with a hood and mask.  The Marine fired, cutting down the figure with brutal efficiency…as two grenades crashed down from above.  Hevrin had a moment to realise that they were dead…and then the grenades detonated, killing them both.

Around them, Mexico City burned.

Chapter Five: Russian Roulette

Moscow, Russia

“The STAVKA will see you know,” the receptionist said.  General Aleksandr Shalenko wasn’t fooled at all by her blonde good looks; she was a trained bodyguard along with a secretary for the Russian President.  Inside the Kremlin, there were still levels of security; even his clearance wouldn’t get him into the heart of some departments.  The FSB was extremely paranoid about security, ever since they had been created in the form of the NKVD; security was all that kept Russian secrets out of American hands.

“Thank you,” Shalenko said, putting down the American newspad he had been reading.  Normally, he wouldn’t have had to wait before seeing the inner command circle of Russia; it was a sharp reminder that the defeat at Berlin had weakened his position…as if it had been needed after two FSB officers had arrived to ensure that he didn’t get lost somewhere along the way.  The American news reports had been spilling over with news about Mexico, from the death of the American Ambassador to Mexico to rioting spreading out of control and rumours that a military coup had been launched.  American businesses had been targeted; GNN had been running interviews with American businessmen who had been lucky to escape the growing chaos.

He smiled thinly as he approached the heavy doors.  He hadn’t expected much from the Mexican option, but it didn’t require much; all it really required was someone to lit a match in the right place and then watch the explosion from a safe distance.  The Chinese had been helpfully providing firewood for the match to light, on top of the firewood the Americans had been piling up for years…and now the lid had come off.  It wasn’t a safe place to be an American, not any longer.  Russia itself was safer; Americans who had been in Russia during the opening of the offensive had been repatriated through Sweden, apart from a convicted criminal who was counting trees in Siberia.  He, at least, the Americans didn’t want back.

He crashed through the doors and came to a halt in front of the long table.  “General Shalenko, reporting as ordered,” he said.  The presence of a chair for him was something of a relief; if he had been summoned for a major dressing down, he would have had to stand and endure it.  “I have returned from the front.”

He studied each of the inner council quickly.  The President, Joseph Lapotin, the man who had taken a coalition of communists, fascists and nationalists to forge the party that had dominated Russia's destiny ever since President Putin had met with an untimely end.  The Minister of Defence, Maxim Baranev, a man whose experience in military matters was limited enough so that he posed little threat.  The FSB Director, Sergei Kirpichov, a thin-lipped man without a sense of humour.  Gregor Petrovich, the Minister of Industry…and finally Sergey Andreev, Lapotin’s advisor.

Shalenko studied the final two with more interest.  Russia had been historically governed by a three-prong system; Party, KGB and Army.  Now, it was Government, FSB, Army and Industry, the endless struggle between those who had rebuilt Russia’s industry and those who sought control over every last detail, risking the end of any chance of matching the Americans.  Gregor Petrovich was one of the most powerful men at the table; in contrast, Sergey Andreev looked old and yet strong.  No one knew how old he was; he had been born sometime during Stalin’s rule, and had somehow remained within the Government though the upheavals that had ended the Soviet Union, and the establishment of the Nationalist Government.  Shalenko privately suspected that Andreev was much younger than he had claimed, but his age had given him an insight that few matched…

“Take a seat, General,” Lapotin said finally.  His voice was tightly controlled; the endless power struggle that made up the heart of Russian government wouldn’t allow him to greet his old friend in public.  “Do you believe that the Europeans will honour the ceasefire as we move units back to the stop line?”

“A foolish decision to make,” Kirpichov said.  The FSB Director looked around the chamber, looking for support…and finding what he found.  “We are giving up territory held by Russian soldiers, which is now Russian.”

Lapotin held up a hand, gently, but firmly.  There was no time for nationalist rhetoric, not now.  “General?”

Shalenko met his old friend’s eyes.  “The Europeans have been weakened by the…running battle at Berlin,” he said.  It hadn’t been a victory for the Russian forces, not by any reasonable stretch of the imagination, but they had bled the NATO forces badly in the struggle.  A war of attrition favoured Russia, even with the Americans involved.  “The danger was always that their politicians would demand an immediate offensive against us, regardless of the military feasibility of such an attack.  The Americans, in particular, would be very keen to launch an attack as quickly as possible to satisfy their domestic opinion, which…”

“Which has other problems at the moment,” Kirpichov observed cheerfully.  The smile on his face gave him the impression of being a pale zombie.  “The troubles in Mexico are more than likely to spread over the border into the southern American states, which will keep them occupied and unable to rush in additional reinforcements to Europe.”

Shalenko kept himself calm.  “We could have prevented them from scoring a second apparent success against us,” he said, hating himself for what he knew to be a half-truth at best.  “No battle plan, however, survives contact with the enemy, and we would have preferred to have avoided a second battle if possible.  I believe that their own people, such as General Trautman, will recognise the futility of an attack and bring pressure on their political masters to accept the ceasefire, which gives them five kilometres back, free.”

“Free,” Kirpichov said.  He looked over at Lapotin.  “That is…Russian territory.”

“We lose nothing by losing five kilometres of blasted ground, particularly seeing the Europeans are not moving into the space we have vacated,” Sergey Andreev said mildly.  His voice was soft, the voice of a very old man.  “How long will it take to recover it if the fighting breaks out again?”

“And, besides, we need time to rebuild our stockpiles of advance weapons,” Gregor Petrovich said.  The industrialist leaned forwards; he, unlike his Western counterparts, had had the advantage of knowing that the war was coming.  Russia not only had a vast stockpile of modern weapons, but the capability to produce more of them quicker than the Americans could produce them.  “The losses in our jet fighters were murderous.”

Shalenko scowled.  The MIG-41 had proven itself to be the equal of the Eurofighter, but the American F-22 and the damnable stealth fighters had been superior…and the NATO forces had better sensors and weapons.  The slaughter hadn’t been entirely one-sided, but the Russian losses had been terrifyingly high.  It wasn’t just the lost airframes that was worrying, but the lost pilots; there was no way that they could be replaced quickly, even with the rapid training program.

“We always knew that this would be a war fought with what we had on hand,” Kirpichov said smoothly.  “The FSB side of the war has been fought out with real skill, don’t you think?”

“Of course,” Lapotin said.  The President smiled thinly; the FSB might be able to put someone in his chair, but there was no way that most of the government would accept a FSB President.  Kirpichov had to know that, Shalenko was sure; what would happen if he wanted more than just the reality of power, but it’s trappings as well?  “You were very effective at sowing terror everywhere.”

“That was the point,” Kirpichov said.  He preened, almost like a cat.  “We struck at bases right across Europe, using hundreds of highly-trained Special Forces operatives, knocking out dozens of bases and disrupting their ability to respond.”  He peered down at Shalenko.  “And, despite that, you were unable to score a major victory.”

Shalenko bit down on his anger.  There was no time for a power play.  “There are nearly a thousand miles from Belarus to France,” he said.  “The priority, I might remind you, was to ensure that the Polish Army was suppressed as fast as possible, along with the EUROFOR forces deployed to support them.  As one of your operations failed, leaving General Trautman alive, the EUROFOR units were able to put up a fight in some places, and then withdraw despite our air supremacy.

“Worse, General Trautman had the authority to summon German soldiers, despite the death of most of the German Government,” he continued.  “German units fought our paratroopers, allowing much of EUROFOR’s tanks and other equipment to escape the trap, forcing us to deploy to seize Warsaw and the other cities.  The delay, the unavoidable delay, gave us the strength we needed to push into Germany, but at the cost of facing a much better prepared enemy.”

“Excuses, Shalenko,” Kirpichov sneered.  “You disappoint me.”

Lapotin tapped the table sharply.  “Enough,” he snapped.  “What about the NATO reinforcements?”

“We believe that they have several newer units, mostly American reserves, arriving within Europe,” Kirpichov said smoothly, his voice shifting from a sneer to a dispassionate analysis.  “We have operatives within the growing logistics net right now and we have a good update; we expect that their total strength of tanks on the front line will exceed a thousand soon.  They have been reluctant to actually base aircraft any closer than Britain, since we managed to launch a sneak attack on a French airbase, but they’re certainly working hard to secure control over the air.”

He grinned.  “The only question is what we agree to give up in exchange for peace, eh?”

Shalenko felt a flicker of pure rage.  “We are hardly beaten yet,” he said.  “Are the Europeans going to be willing to permit the Americans to turn Europe into a battleground for the next few years or so?”

“Which is essentially immaterial,” Lapotin said, before Kirpichov could say anything.  “What do we ask from the Europeans in exchange for a peace?”

“What do we accept in exchange for an end to the war?”  Petrovich said.  The industrialist looked down at the table.  “The people were delighted at our early victories, but now it has dawned on them that we are in for a long war, and historically long wars have been bad for us Russians.  Oh, we have done something no other government has managed to do and actually feed the people, but that depends on the transportation net remaining intact; there are already shortages simply because of the volume of military traffic.”

There was a long moment of silence.  All of them remembered what fighting the Cold War had cost Russia; all of them knew from their history studies what had happened to the Tsars…and what had so nearly happened to Stalin.  No one in the room was under any illusions as to how loved Russia was in the Ukraine and Belarus; Shalenko knew that there were European forces still lost within the Ukraine, fighting where they could.  Belarus was still a hotbed of revolution…and as for Poland….

“Then those shortages must be rectified,” Kirpichov said.  “I can have a team of FSB officers patrolling within the day, if you are willing to accept my help.”

Petrovich eyed him grimly.  “The rise in our funds since we developed the resources in the east allowed us to make major long-term investments,” he said, very sharply.  “The problem remains that we have a working rail network with very strong limits; a coach that is carrying soldiers to the front is one that is not transporting food into the cities.  There are places where there is plenty of food, but it’s hard to get it anywhere useful, even with the modifications to the rail network.”

“The people will understand what we are asking of them,” Sergey Andreev said.  The old man looked at Shalenko.  “General, how quickly could your forces be prepared for a major attack against the European and NATO lines?”

Shalenko blinked at the question.  “I had intended to use the coming week to rearm and hopefully do some training,” he said.  “Our logistics are the best that any Russian army has ever had, so we can flood in additional ammunition to cover our requirements.  Assuming that the objection is to destroy the forces facing us, then…it would take at least a second week to mass our forces, ideally with some other forces inserted behind enemy lines.”

He paused.  “Our main weakness is aircraft,” he said.  “We need more air superiority forces to at least hold the Americans back from us.”

“The Chinese have offered to supply us with some of their own crack units,” Lapotin said.  His face twitched into a grim smile.  “Would that be useful?”

Shalenko frowned.  One of the odder points about the Pact of Opposition was that fewer units from each of the major powers had taken part in joint exercises than might be expected.  Some units, mainly the various navies, had cooperated to launch the attack that had shattered the American fleet, but others had been kept apart deliberately.  It wasn’t a coincidence; there was a long and bloody history between Russia and China.  They might have a common enemy in America, but…they still didn’t completely trust one another.

And there was a second problem.  “We haven’t had a proper training period,” he said.  “The Chinese use similar aircraft to us and we made some real process on standardising our weapons, but we’re just not used to operating together.  If we start practicing, the Americans are bound to pick up on it and realise what we’re doing.  I don’t see any way to maintain surprise.”

“Certain things have been decided,” Lapotin said.  “We will attend the peace conference and we will offer to return the remainder of Germany, but we will keep Poland under our…supervision, in exchange for all American units leaving the mainland of Europe…”

“They won’t go for that,” Shalenko said shortly.  “General Trautman made that clear to me.”

“We believe as much,” Lapotin agreed.  “In the event of the peace talks breaking down, we will attack as soon as possible, launching a major attack intended to cripple EUROFOR and complete the task of occupying Germany and France.  If we can accomplish that, then…”

Shalenko held up a hand.  “Mr President, with all due respect, we cannot do that…”

“We can if we deploy tactical nuclear weapons,” Kirpichov said.

There was a long silence.  Shalenko stared at the FSB Director, wondering; what was Kirpichov’s game?  The FSB might have some very competent Special Forces units, but their security forces weren’t much better than cannon fodder against a real army.  They hadn’t been intended to fight a real army, but to hold down territory through the traditional methods of rape, brutality and general unpleasantness.  The regulars looked down on them – with reason.

“If we deploy tactical nuclear weapons, they will deploy them as well,” Shalenko said, very calmly.  “We might end up blasting each other into radioactive dust.”

Kirpichov smiled.  “Politically, can they afford to retaliate?”

Shalenko wondered if Kirpichov was mad.  “There can be little doubt, after the Americans hit that harbour in Vietnam,” he said.  “The Chinese used nuclear weapons and…”

“And had a limited exchange with the Americans,” Kirpichov insisted.  “We could dictate the terms of such an engagement.”

“We can’t,” Shalenko said.  “If we devastate Germany, and that is what we are talking about, the French or the British will use their own nukes, even if the Americans don’t.  Our BMD shield is much less useful against cruise missiles, and they have a small amount of artillery that have nuclear warheads.”

He leaned forwards.  “It’s madness.”

***
“Of course it’s madness,” Lapotin agreed, afterwards.  They sat together in Lapotin’s private quarters, a room filled with little artworks from across the world.  There was little rhyme or reason to the collection; the younger Lapotin had just seen things he liked and bought them.  “It wasn’t very smart of you to tell him that.”

“Get rid of him,” Shalenko urged.  “Do we really need him?”

“Politically, if I move against him, others will move against me,” Lapotin reminded him.  He studied his glass of vodka as if it were suddenly the most important thing in his world.  “You know the rules as well as I do.”

Shalenko shook his head.  “Joseph, if we go nuclear…”

“That weasel has a point,” Lapotin said.  Shalenko stared at him.  “We always knew that we had to win quickly…and we have failed.  It was all I could do to avoid having you and Admiral Daniel Sulkin dragged home and shot; several FSB officers in Poland have already met that fate for failing to prevent a revolution.”

Shalenko felt his lips tighten.  “Those…officers went into a Polish school, took out all of the girls, and gang-raped them,” he said.  “They were the lucky ones who survived the uprising that blew up moments later.  If the Poles have no hope, then what prevents them from rioting against us?”

“True,” Lapotin agreed.  “The point remains that there are…elements under our heights that want to win the war, whatever it costs.  Some elements want to sell out the other Pact nations, some elements want to take the war nuclear as quickly as possible. Alex, can we win in Europe?”

Shalenko frowned.  “If we could dispose of their air cover, success would be much more likely,” he said.  “That remains the problem that we cannot counter without more aircraft.”

“Then the Chinese aircraft will have to be used,” Lapotin said.  He gripped Shalenko’s arm.  “We need that victory, Alex; that’s why you have the keys to the tactical nuclear weapons.  Understand; we dare not lose this war…and little Kirpichov really doesn’t dare lose the war.”

Shalenko frowned  “Why?”

Lapotin’s smile was humourless.  “Because of the POWs,” he said.  “Kirpichov is in charge of them, remember?”

Chapter Six: Back In China

Near Hong Kong, China

“I am not fond of the sea,” General Cheng Xingming said, as he looked down at the ships floating in the massive civilian harbour.  The harbour was old and rusty, with old and rusty ships, and only a handful of people outside the harbour knew that that was exactly what it was supposed to look like.  The Chinese hadn’t needed the Russians to teach them the age-old arts of camouflage.  “Are you sure that these…craft will accomplish the purpose they have been built for?”

Commodore Qiu Xiaoshuai – who was no more a Commodore than a civilian – kept his face carefully blank.  It didn’t do to laugh at a senior officer, even if that senior officer was about to command China’s greatest maritime operation ever and didn’t like the sea; it could have negative career repercussions.  General Cheng was known for being one of the People’s Liberation Army’s rising stars, a man who had commanded the military operation that had secured a large chunk of Indonesian soil, but he didn’t like the sea.  Under other circumstances, it would almost be funny.

“I am fairly confident,” he said.  He couldn’t resist the chance for a little lecture; General Cheng had been a condescending presence in the shipyard ever since the plans had been created, months ago.  The American strike that had destroyed the purpose-built transports had kicked his more…private project into high gear.  “The Americans are looking in the harbours that are producing the newer carriers and warships, not here; even if they did look, there would be much less for them to see than anywhere else.”

General Cheng snorted.  “Are you certain that that is the case?”

Commodore Qiu nodded down at one of the hulks.  “The Americans have lost many of their probing satellites, but we are proceeding on the assumption that their command of space is perfect and they are seeing everything that we are showing them,” he said.  “The…special equipment is not very easy to distinguish from any of the…commercial systems that a ship like this one could be expected to carry, but we were very careful in any case to ensure that we were not seen anyway, just in case.”

He smiled thinly.  “I don’t say that the Americans have seen nothing, General, but as long as they have seen what we have showed them, there is no reason to worry,” he said.  He paused.  “Shall we go onboard one of the craft?”

General Cheng followed him up the gangplank.  The smell of the sea grew stronger as they stepped onto the ship, passing a deckhand whose slouch was just a little more professional than anyone would expect.  He nodded once to the senior officers – saluting was strictly forbidden onboard the ships – and stepped aside to let them pass.  The massive hulk might have looked as if it was about to sink at any moment, but China’s experts in naval design had worked hard; it would complete it’s mission with a large safely margin.

“We had the idea from the older carriers, the ones designed way back in the First World War,” Commodore Qiu said, as they entered the main body of the ship.  It had once been a vehicle transport, convoying Japanese-made cars to America or Australia; the Chinese had obtained it through the black market, when the Japanese had suffered a serious decline in their economy.  “They were largely converted freighters, later a set of converted battleships, but the general trend favoured purpose-built carriers like the American designs.”

They shared a small grin.  Five Allied carriers had been lost or seriously damaged in the Battle of Taiwan.  “The American designs were much more versatile than anyone else’s designers,” Commodore Qiu continued, “but they took years to build.  We didn’t have that time, or even the expertise required to construct one of their nuclear carriers, but we didn’t need it.  We might have built a few smaller carriers of our own, but it’s ships like this that will win us the coming battle, General.”

Inside, the unnamed freighter was a model of military efficiency in all respects, but one.  The crew would never have passed muster in front of a drill sergeant; their ‘uniforms’ made them look like a pack of pirates, rather than real sailors in one of the largest navies on the planet.  Commodore Qiu sensed the General’s instinctive disapproval, despite the fact that it wasn’t that long ago since the PLA had adopted real uniforms for it’s own people, and smiled to himself.  The small fleet would win a victory or lose…but either way, it wouldn’t cost China much to make the effort.

“That aircraft there is a Merlin Harrier, modified for our use,” Commodore Qiu continued, as they passed a large aircraft.  “The Merlin was a British design, but it wasn't one that they ever put into major production; they only sold a few to India before Delhi occurred.  Their carelessness is our advantage here, sir; they could have used a force of Merlin aircraft in Europe.  They won’t be a match for the latest aircraft we or the Americans deploy, but they should be a fair match for the target’s aircraft, given the advantage of surprise.  They’re not the real surprise, of course, but…”

“Of course,” General Cheng agreed.  “What of the real surprise?”

Commodore Qiu smiled.  The fruits of nearly a year’s careful experimentation had been revealed to those in the known only two weeks ago.  “They’re onboard in their locations,” he said, unwilling to say much more.  Surprise was at a premium.  “Their weapons have also been loaded and most of the ships are ready to depart.  Seeing the Americans are honouring the truce at the moment, we have an opportunity to get the ships into position for the latest time of execution.  As soon as we are on the way south, we will maintain radio and radar silence; we even have permits from Japan to travel through the waters as tramp freighters, just in case we lose the truce unexpectedly.  The chaos in Mexico might give the Americans a chance to dump the truce; their commenters are either blaming us or blaming their own government.”

They shared a puzzled look.  Both of them had risen to prominence under the Chinese Communist Party; in a very real sense, they could imagine nothing else.  Democracy was alien to them; Commodore Qiu knew how the American system worked, but he couldn’t understand it, not really.  The thought that the Americans could match China was chilling; if the Japanese had not wasted China’s young men, if the Nationalists had not ruined what was left, if…

There was no point in worrying.  Whatever happened, would happen, and the world would never be the same.

“Which leads to a final point,” General Cheng said, as they entered the ship’s operations room.  It could have passed muster as an operations room for a real freighter company, rather than the hub of a military operation of unprecedented scope and daring.  It wasn’t unknown for freighter companies to have real flagships; this one, however, would only seem genuine under a loose inspection.  Both men knew what a mistake could cost them.  “What about the launch times?”

Commodore Qiu frowned.  “We have been sending a handful of ships to test the limits,” he said.  “In all cases, they were not permitted to approach the coast without being inspected, and there were aircraft high overhead backing up the threats from the coast.  After what the Russians did to Iceland, that makes sense; the Russians managed to slip an entire assault force right under their noses in a freighter…and then they took the island with ease.  No one is going to make that mistake again, sir; we may have a booked convoy, but they are still going to inspect us, just in case.”

He paused.  “What about the other operations groups?”

“You don’t need to know,” General Cheng said.  He paused for a moment.  “It would be unwise to count on them, Commodore; there are too many imponderables involved to be sure of them when they are needed.  You have to plan on the assumption that everything will go wrong, leaving you alone.”

Commodore Qiu wasn't surprised.  The perfect secret operation only existed in bad novels and worse movies.  China had done everything right…and it could still go badly wrong; their target would have had the complacency shaken out of it by the events at Taiwan.  A single mistake at the wrong time and everything could go to shit.

“In that case, the attack will be launched from just outside the limits,” Commodore Qiu said.  “That will give us time to deploy our surprise and wait for the results, sir; then we can move ahead to land if necessary.  It may be technology almost a hundred years old, but we have some new tricks to add to it…and even if we lose, we lose very little.”

“I have your orders from the Government, direct from the President,” General Cheng said.  “You are to leave tonight and head towards the staging area” - Commodore Qiu grinned to himself; it was a fancy term for a bay somewhere in Indonesia – “and wait there for further instructions.  We will arrange some bureaucratic bullshit to keep you with us without arousing suspicion; we’ve been playing with Japanese ships for long enough that it won’t concern anyone.”

Commodore Qiu shrugged.  “Understood, sir,” he said.  “I take it that the follow-up forces are ready?”

“We have plenty of lifting capability, mostly moved in for the purpose of hunting down and slaughtering insurgents,” General Cheng said.  “You’ll have your support, Commodore; all you have to do is open the door for us, and we will charge though it and complete the invasion.”

“Yes, sir,” Commodore Qiu said.  “Speed is of the essence; the minute they realise what’s happening, the Americans will come pouring out of Pearl Harbour like mad bastards.”

“True, Commodore,” General Cheng said, in a ‘don’t teach your grandmother to suck eggs’ tone.  “There is a final point that you have to understand…the civilians are not to be harmed, understand?”

Commodore Qiu lifted an eyebrow.  “Sir?”

“These are not terrorists, or strange people who spend most of their time chanting hate America chants,” General Cheng said.  “They’re not even Vietnamese.  The President has ordered that there is to be minimum interference with the civilians, and none of the usual occupation methods.  Anyone guilty of crimes against civilians will be put in front of the world’s media and shot.”

“Understood, sir,” Commodore Qiu said.  “There will be no war crimes on my watch.”

***
I am in hell, Lieutenant Stephanie Tsuji thought, as her latest interrogator stepped into the room.  She had been a captive of the Chinese for what felt like years – she wasn’t sure herself just how long it had been – and it showed.  The Chinese might not have been brutal towards her, but they hadn’t hesitated to keep her helpless and weak.  No one expected Canada’s puny army and navy to come rescue her – as far as she knew, she was the only survivor of the Canadian ship at Taiwan – and the Chinese considered that licence to treat her as a resource.

They also considered her something of a traitor.  Her mother had been Chinese, her father Japanese…and they had seemed to expect her to abandon everything she had sworn to Canada and join them.  Her mother’s family had fled the Chinese Government years ago, but the Chinese had still considered her Chinese, although an inferior Chinese woman with diluted blood.  She knew enough to know that most Chinese didn’t feel that way, but the Chinese had staffed the prison with some of the most xenophobic people she had ever met.  The outfit she wore was proof of that; the first time she had seen it, she had thought that it was like something out of a bad Japanese bondage movie, but it restricted her movements almost perfectly.  She had been warned, in no uncertain terms, that if by some dark miracle she managed to get out of the compound, the suit would lock up and trap her until the guards found her.

She raised her eyes, tiredly, to examine her new tormentor.  He was, like many of the others, Han Chinese; she didn’t recognise his uniform at all.  She’d had to endure several sessions with a propaganda officer, who had expected her to embrace the Chinese version of communism without delay, and he had been bad.  She wondered, grimly, what the new guy wanted, or even if he wanted anything at all.  Some of them had just asked questions seemingly at random; it was amazing how much she knew that Chinese sailors apparently didn’t.

“You must be Stephanie,” the man said.  He spoke perfect English.  “You may call me David, if you like.”

“David,” Stephanie said, rolling the English word around her mouth.  She had kept the fact that she spoke Mandarin from the Chinese guards, a tiny victory, even though she would have assumed, in their place, that she spoke it.  “That’s new…”

“I guess it is,” David said.  She knew better than to assume that his name was really David, or indeed English; a Chinese person might sometimes assume an English name, but that was only done for the benefit of westerners.  “What do you know about Mexico?”

Stephanie stared at him.  It wasn’t the first odd question that she had had, but it was certainly the most…inappropriate.  “Very little,” she answered, honestly.  “I’m from Canada, not America.”

“The Mexicans have risen in revolt against the Americans,” David said.  If he was aware of the…inaccuracy of his comment, he gave no sign of it.  Stephanie wondered if he believed himself.  “What do you think the Canadian Government will do in the circumstances?”

Stephanie thought about it.  “I can’t see them doing anything,” she said, after a moment.  “They’re not going to be really concerned…what is happening, out there?”

David paused.  “The Canadian Army is supposed to be sending a force to Europe,” he said.  Stephanie looked at him; the guards had dropped enough clues for her to realise that there was a war being fought in Europe as well.  “They don’t seem to have been discouraged by your broadcasts.”

Shame flooded through Stephanie’s body.  The Chinese had forced her to make a series of broadcasts, calling for peace and an end to the war.  “I’m not surprised,” she said, allowing some of her bitterness to spread through her body.  “They’re going to know that I an under duress.”

“Perhaps,” David agreed.  He didn’t sound concerned about her.  “You may be interested to know that there have been some developments on the peace front.”

Stephanie wanted to tell him to fuck off.  “What sort of developments?”

David smiled.  There was something inherently wrong about his smile.  “There will be a peace conference between the Allies – they have yet to think of a cool name for themselves – and the Pact,” he said.  “What do you think of that?”

Stephanie eyed him.  “Who are you really?”  She asked bitterly.  “I don’t know any of this; I’m a helicopter pilot, not an Admiral or the commander of my ship.  You’ve mined me of almost everything I know…”

“I hope for your sake that that is not actually true,” David said.  His voice was very mild, but there was a dark hint running under his voice.  “One possibility is that we manage to form a peace agreement between the two warring sides, one that respects what we have done, dividing the world into two sides…or the war goes on.  If that happens, you, Stephanie, are no longer required.”

Stephanie found it hard to care any longer.  “So what now?”

“That rather depends,” David admitted.  “We have hundreds of prisoners, some of them genuinely important, including an American Captain and a British officer of a quite high rank.  You’re the only Canadian we have been able to capture and there was some suggestion that you should be traded back to them, but…you know much more than any of our people.  Bluntly…you’re worth more than ten of our people, and Canada will find it harder to replace you.”

Stephanie felt her heart sink.  “What are you going to do with me?”

“You’re going to one of the interior prison camps,” David said.  “It’s not a nice place, but it will keep you out of trouble until the war ends, whereupon I dare say that you will be traded back to your people.”  He paused.  “It’s a stupid cause for a Canadian to die in, defending American hegemony, don’t you think?”

“I think that your cause is bogus,” Stephanie snapped, allowing some anger to show through for the first time.  “What’s the fucking point in taking a godforsaken island that you think belongs to you?  What’s the point in taking most of East Asia?  What’s the point of it all?”

David showed little reaction.  “Taiwan is ours,” he said.  “It has always been so.”

“The people in Taiwan think otherwise,” Stephanie shouted.  Her rage was bubbling up now, born of months of helplessness and frustration.  “They don’t want to be ruled by you and…”

David hit her once, neatly; she fell to the ground.  “You do not understand,” he snapped, his own anger bubbling through.  “You live in one of the safest places in the world, except its no longer safe, is it?  You think that you get to moralise because you are safe, don’t you?  The world is not safe, nor is it fair; Taiwan was taken from us by the Japanese and the Americans.”  

He snapped his fingers; two guards entered the room.  “Take her back to her cell,” he ordered them.  His voice was growing back under control.  “Stephanie, you will spend the rest of the war in a work camp…and may we never meet again.”

The guards grabbed her and marched her out of the room.  Surprisingly, Stephanie felt better than she had in months; for once, she had been able to get her feelings off her chest.  Whatever happened in the future…at least she had her self-respect back.

Chapter Seven: The Queen of Japan

Tokyo, Japan

“It’s always a pleasure to see you again, Ambassador,” Maehara Kimie said.  “Won’t you please sit down?”

Ambassador Seth Fanaroff bowed once and took his seat, accepting the maid’s offer of a small cup of tea without comment.  Maehara, the Foreign Minister of Japan and perhaps the most powerful woman in the country, smiled at him, her mature features revealing hints of the beauty she’d been in her youth.  Fanaroff smiled back, knowing better than to underestimate her; a woman who rose to such heights within any male-dominated country would be likely to be much, much smarter than the average man.  Maehara’s rise to power had been studied extensively by American experts on Japan; she was even tipped to be Prime Minister at some point.

She was tall, taller than most Japanese women, with long dark hair.  Her mouth was heart-breaking beautiful, the ideal of Japanese womanhood; her political enemies had claimed that she had left a trail of broken hearts behind her as she climbed to power.  She had been involved with the grim negotiations with China and the other Pact countries that had kept Japan out of the war, not least because Japan couldn’t defeat the Pact, or even fight for long.  All the Chinese had to do was block a few shipping lanes and halt deliveries…and Japan would grind to a halt.  Fanaroff knew the cold equations dominating Japan's position in the world; only Chinese goodwill kept Japan going…and the Chinese had little goodwill when it came to Japan.

“I was surprised to receive your invitation,” he said, after five minutes of idle chitchat.  He had more patience than most Americans possessed, but he knew that there was much less time than anyone liked; the war was raging around the world, even if there was the first hints of a ceasefire.  Fanaroff had privately expected that the Chinese would have sought to force the Japanese into more…active collaboration, but instead they had just forced the Japanese to provide high technology and other resources.  It was a political nightmare.  “I thought that we weren’t talking these days.”

Maehara shrugged daintily.  “You know as well as I do that there are…political issues in talking to any American after we had a falling out,” she said.  “The Chinese were quite insistent that we didn’t supply you with anything, forcing us into their economic orbit; they were even asking us to kick you out.  That couldn’t happen; if we threw out all the American investment, our economy would go under and the government would be out of power.  The results could be…severe.”

Fanaroff sipped his tea, considering.  Japan hadn’t been able to put together a stable government for years; the current Prime Minister was generally regarded as a temporary non-entity.  There was a growing right-wing party, one that believed that Japan had to throw off its shackles and claim it’s rightful place in the world…one that wouldn’t have hesitated to start a war against China if it thought that it could win.  The Chinese were just as likely to simply start the war the minute the results were announced, a massive pre-emptive strike to prevent the Japanese nuclear weapons from being deployed.

“You may know that China has been pressing us for bases, such as the ones you built and we took over a few years ago,” Maehara continued.  “It’s been fairly easy to deny them, but we expect that they will start attempting to push us harder, perhaps with a few judicious shortages in supplies to remind us of who’s boss.  Naturally, we would prefer to deal with you, but…”

Fanaroff held up a hand.  “Bases?”

“They want to use the naval bases here, and they want to have ground forces based in Japan,” Maehara said.  “As you can imagine, such a move would be far less than popular in Japan and it could cause the government to fall.”  She paused.  “No, it would cause the government to fall, perhaps even though an emergency act of some kind.  The…self-defence forces would react badly to what the Chinese are demanding, Mr Ambassador; the only question is how we react.”

Fanaroff studied her for a long moment.  “What exactly do you want us to do about it?”  He asked, mildly.  “Years ago, you insisted that we remove much of the military hardware in Japan, apart from the BMD and TMD shields.  Japan…since then, has been effectively supplying the enemy and may have had a part to play in the defeat we suffered recently at Taiwan.  Were Japanese systems part of the Chinese weapons?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Maehara said.  Her voice was very flat.  “The Chinese have insisted, themselves, that we provide investments and technology for them according to what they want to be invested…and each of those investments gives us a new hostage to the Chinese ambitions.  All they have to do is take them back and…”

“Your economy tanks,” Fanaroff said dryly.  “You must realise that Japan is not a very popular nation in the United States at the moment.  If we send ships back into the killing zone, the President will face harsh questions from Congress and the Senate, who were among those who wanted sanctions slapped on Japan for supplying the enemy…”

“And for supplying Americans with cheaper goods than American companies could produce?”  Maehara said bitterly.  “Your inefficiency is hardly our problem.”

“You must realise that four-tenths of politics is appearances and five-tenths of politics is rhetoric,” Fanaroff pointed out dryly.  “Japan-bashing gets the votes; reality doesn’t get a look in to the confrontation.  Everyone in America now thinks that Japanese not only steal American jobs, but are also using American money to fund the people who sunk four carriers, three of them American.  As far as they are concerned, Maehara, you’re on the side of the enemy.”

“You Americans with your simple view of the world,” Maehara said grimly.  Her voice became icy.  “I have been…empowered to offer you something that you need, desperately.”

Fanaroff lifted an eyebrow.  “As you are no doubt aware, we have a massive intelligence gathering network in China,” Maehara said.  “We have been attempting to subvert individual Chinese for quite some time, mainly through cooperation with Taiwan, as many Chinese will talk to the Taiwanese, but not to us.  We also have a few surprises in the technology we sold the Chinese, although nothing like as much as bad movies and novels suggest.  The Chinese have their own experts in computer technology and we know that they have mastered quantum computing, to the point where we don’t dare attempt outright sabotage.   We have been attempting to find out what the Chinese have planned for the coming months, particularly if the ceasefire fails to last very long.

“What we heard, recently, was alarming,” she continued.  “The Chinese have been working hard on methods to take the war to Taiwan, including economic blockade and air and missile raids.  They have maintained one of their Marine armies near Taiwan, but they don’t have the large landing craft they had prepared for the mission after you hit the ships they had built for the attack.  We have picked up rumours that they intend to launch a marine invasion anyway, perhaps not aimed at Taiwan.”

Fanaroff blinked.  “Not aimed at Taiwan?”

“Perhaps,” Maehara cautioned.  “The Chinese are masters at disinformation and it’s true that there are fewer targets than one would expect.  The second possibility is that they intend to invade Japan, except that would be very difficult, even for them…”

“I would expect them not to want to alter the arrangement they have,” Fanaroff said.  “The Chinese aren’t particularly stupid, are they?”

“No,” Maehara agreed.  “The third possibility is Australia.”

“They would have to be mad,” Fanaroff said.  “Australia is not…some small island that can be overrun in a day, but a first-world country with a powerful army.”

“If numerically weak,” Maehara said.  “They have only 40’000 soldiers at most, now that they have called up their reserves, and they have a long coastline to defend.  The Chinese have been massing their forces in Indonesia and have been moving in aircraft and support elements, including jet fighters and tanker aircraft.  That’s…rather more than they need to fight insurgents, which is the official reason for the deployment.”

Fanaroff thought about it.  “I’m not a military expert, but Australia is what…three hundred kilometres from East Timor, isn’t it?”

“Four hundred,” Maehara corrected.  “It’s a major effort, but the Chinese seem to believe that they can do it, if they put a lot of effort into succeeding.  We have been watching this with some concern, Ambassador; there are just too many points about their deployments that don’t quite add up.  Add in a plan to land a major force in Australia and suddenly everything joins up into one coherent picture.”

“Go on,” Fanaroff said.

“I told you about the aircraft,” Maehara said.  “The Chinese have also moved a few hundred transports of one kind or another into Indonesia, mainly – officially  - to prevent you sinking them, as American submarines have sunk several dozen Chinese transports in the last few months.  If they needed them back home, why haven’t they taken advantage of the ceasefire and moved them in the last week?  They also have tanks and heavy guns that are practically useless in Indonesia anyway…but very useful when considering that they might be taking on a modern army.  They have also been duelling, from time to time, with Australian combat jets, particularly after Guam.  All they have launched at Australia are a few cruise missiles, but they could certainly launch a few more if they wanted to, so they might just be testing their systems…”

Fanaroff, not for the first time, wished that he had more than a purely theoretical understanding of the military.  “Do you have this information gathered somewhere?”

Maehara passed him a single datachip.  “Do not lose this,” she said sharply.  “Your people will want to know some of the details we can’t – won’t – supply, like our sources, but that information is too valuable to be risked.  Everything on the disc is accurate to the best of our knowledge, but…we would vastly prefer it if you kept it’s origin to yourself.”

“I understand,” Fanaroff said.  He studied the chip; it felt slightly warm to the touch, not heavy at all.  He had half-expected it to feel heavy with the weight of the world.  “What do you want in return?”

Maehara’s eyes were bitter.  “I would like for the Chinese to be trimmed back a little,” she said.  “I would like to be able to get supplies from elsewhere, so that we wouldn’t have to kowtow in front of the Chinese.  I would like to have a peaceful world and…”

“You can have peace or freedom,” Fanaroff said dryly.  “Don’t ever count on having both at once.”

Maehara shrugged.  “There is a second piece of information you need,” she said.  “Consider this one a gift, although it’s something that we would be keenly interested to see the Chinese stumble upon; there’s something up with the POWs the Chinese have.”

Fanaroff felt his blood run cold.  “What’s happened to them?”

“The Chinese released information on who they held though our own good offices,” Maehara said seriously.  “We have some evidence that they didn’t name everyone they have, including several high-ranking officers from your ships, a French ship and a British ship.  That, however, is not the important point.”

She leaned forwards.  “The Chinese have used the prisoners for two different things,” she continued.  “A handful who were unusually photogenic – that half-Japanese girl, for example – have been used to make propaganda broadcasts, while most of the others have been ruthlessly mined for information.  An American fighter pilot knows a lot more than any standard Chinese pilot would know, Seth; they have been quick to use the windfall that has fallen into their lap.  Many of their questions have been answered…”

“Americans have been helping the Chinese?”

Maehara smiled thinly.  “It is amazing how easy it is to make someone talk,” she said.  “Those who did not cooperate, we suspect, have been tortured, or drugged; the Chinese have plenty of experience in using both methods to make people talk.  Now, however, the Chinese have run out of questions for most of their prisoners…and they are working on a final solution.”

Fanaroff waited for her to speak.  “We believe that most of them will be sent to labour camps deep within China, or Russia,” Maehara concluded.  “Once they have been there for a few months, they won’t be fit for anything.  Anything at all.”

“I understand,” Fanaroff said.  “Thank you, I think.”

Maehara laughed.

***
“The question,” Colonel Boris Paterson said, “is if the Foreign Minister is telling the truth or not?”

Fanaroff leaned backwards as the American Embassy’s military attaché – and also agent of the CIA – went to work on the datachip.  As soon as he had returned to the embassy, he had ordered Paterson to drop everything else and analyse the information on the datachip, just in case that it was real.  He’d spent half an hour filing a preliminary report for the President himself, but apart from that he had followed Maehara’s advice and kept the entire incident to himself.

“There’s no way to know,” Fanaroff admitted.  Paterson lifted an eyebrow with a single grim smile.  “She might have believed what she was saying, without actually being right, or she might have just been lied to by her sources.  It could be a massive wild goose chase, or it could be intended to divert us from something else that the Chinese are planning.”

“Or the Japanese, for reasons of their own, are trying to make us react to a possible threat,” Paterson said.  His hands danced over the secure computer system, logging in and sealing all the information in the chip into a secure compartment.  His biometric signature would be required to liberate the information.  “They’ve been in the Chinese pocket for the last few years, so they might have a motive to harass us.”

“Ah, the wonderful world of intelligence,” Fanaroff said.  “God, where would we be if we didn’t have diplomats and so on just to lie to one another convincingly?”

“We would have a better world?”  Paterson asked dryly.  “Good, we’re into the chip.”

The first page of information, a Japanese satellite photograph of an Indonesian harbour, appeared in front of them.  Fanaroff studied it without any real understanding; Paterson seemed to understand, going by the muttering he was making under his breath.  Fanaroff waited patiently for his evaluation, wondering if it was real…or just a strange hoax.

“Those transports are sitting heavily in the water,” Paterson said, after a moment.  His voice had darkened.  “That’s bad procedure at the best of times, Mr Ambassador; we could have a submarine on the prowl, looking for weaknesses in their forces…and that’s a weakness.  If we sent one of those ships to the bottom, they would lose whatever supplies they have in the ships.”

Fanaroff frowned.  “They’re not just going to use them to tranship them across the different islands?”

“There’s little point with ships that large,” Paterson said.  He studied the image for a long moment.  “Notice how much they have put in there in the way of submarine protection?  Perhaps we couldn’t get a submarine through after all; that’s one hell of a lot of protection for a harmless freighter.”

He skimmed through the remainder of the information with growing interest.  “I think, sir, that this is well above our heads,” he said.  “This information…needs to be forwards to Washington as quickly as possible, just so they can decide what to do about it…and what we are going to tell the Australians.”

“Please see to it,” Fanaroff said.  He paused.  “Do you believe that we can get a rescue mission into the heart of China?”

“The POWs?”  Paterson asked.  “I would not bet on it, not if they’re nowhere near the coast; we might need something that can reach there without being detected and not even one of the latest stealth bombers can do that.  A SEAL team might be able to reach them, but getting them out would be a mission and a half.”

“They’re Americans,” Fanaroff said.  “They’re Americans in the heart of China.  We are going to get them out, whatever it takes.”

Paterson said nothing.  

Chapter Eight: Dark Doings in Washington

Washington DC, USA

“Mr President, with all due respect, there is only one question that we need to answer,” General Armstrong said.  “Are the…insurgents, terrorists, or whatever they actually are in Mexico funded by the Pact of Opposition?”

David Simmons said nothing.  The chaos in Mexico was threatening to spread across the border, despite several attempts by the Mexican Army to establish a new government.  Thousands of refugees had already attempted to flee northwards, many of them rich Mexicans fearing for their lives in the wake of the chaos, which had been aimed at businesses as much as the government.  America had never been popular in Mexico, but the sheer scale of the hatred had surprised many Americans, who thought rarely about their southern neighbour.  Americans in Mexico were almost certainly dead; the Ambassador and his entire staff had vanished somewhere in the battles raging through Mexico City.

Worse, the…movement, whatever it was, was spreading.  ‘Latin America for the Latin Americans,’ it proclaimed, and there were dozens of people who were listening.  The chaos had already spread through some of the smaller states – he was surprised to find out that Panama had hardly been touched by the chaos – and Columbia was on the verge of anarchy.  Venezuela was already declaring its support for the anti-American movement; perversely, it was also helping American refugees escape the growing chaos.

“We have American servicemen in Columbia,” General Armstrong pressed.  Simmons nodded grimly; the Americans had been working to help cut off the stream of illegal drugs, something that was fiercely resented by the Columbians.  They saw it as a process full of American hypocrisy…and they might even have been right.  “None of them have reported back since the brief report that they were under attack.  Mr President, the entire region is on fire…and we have to do something.”

The President steepled his fingers.  He had been fielding calls all day from the Governors of the southern states, demanding that the President send additional National Guard units south to assist in sealing the border completely.  The Border Guard and the State Defence Force were overwhelmed and many of the National Guard units had been prepared for overseas deployment, rather than the southern border.  The civil war, whatever it really was, was being fought out by a shadowy force; no one was quite sure who was pulling the strings.

“It’s hard to see what we can do,” Simmons said, after the President had nodded at him.  He had spent several days collecting what information there was available, but many of the human intelligence sources across Latin America had been silenced, some of them violently.  Pro-American politicians, such as there were, had been slaughtered in the streets by mobs, who were being directed by a shadowy hand.  It was so hard to tell what was happening that Simmons wasn’t sure if there was a grand master plan or merely an entire series of unrelated incidents.

Both, probably.

“There’s no central control network that we can bomb,” he continued.  “This might be the grand pan-Latin American movement it claims to be, but we don’t know who’s actually behind it, although President – Caudillo - Cesar Eduardo Fernandez would seem to be the most likely suspect.  It could be just a larger application of the Paris Principle; create a nightmare in our backyard so that we don’t look at the Pact.”

Armstrong pressed.  “Is there any proof that the Pact is behind this?”

“Nothing, we think,” Simmons said, frowning.  “There are…oddities.  The team that attacked the Embassy, from the last report we had, were trained professionals, hardly street thugs.  You’ll remember from Iraq that whenever the insurgents attempted to storm a house defended by our troops, we were able to inflict very heavy losses on them, despite their numerical superiority.  The Marines in Mexico City were some of the best we had, and very well trained and prepared for a possible attack…and they got hammered.

“So far, the Pact has said nothing about the chaos in Mexico, apart from a few snide comments in their propaganda broadcasts,” he continued.  “Pact weapons were used in some of the raids, but always weapons that were sold extensively around the world, so there’s no real proof that the Pact is actually involved directly, but…they would certainly benefit from the chaos.”

“Wonderful,” General Armstrong said.  “What’s going to happen next?”

“Someone is going to come out on top in Mexico,” Simmons said.  He checked through the information that had been gathered by the PIA and transmitted to his palmtop.  “The vast majority of the Mexican Air Force has been destroyed in the fighting, but several units of the Army seem to have joined the insurgents, or whatever they actually are.  This…movement might have made very good progress with recruiting junior officers – the senior ones often had to bribe their way into the higher ranks – which means that they might have an army once they are ready to move.”

The President blinked.  “You think they’ll come north?”

“It depends how sane they are,” Simmons said.  “In a stand-up fight, the Texas State Defence Force and the National Guard should be able to handle them, but a lot of them will be desperate – it is not impossible that the new government won’t send thousands of refugees fleeing north, attacking us through an indirect method.  It’s a long border and sealing it will be…expensive in men and machines, which will…”

“Cut down on what we can send to Europe,” Armstrong said.  “Or anywhere else for that matter, like the Middle East or Australia.”

“We could attempt to establish some control over northern Mexico, but that would make our soldiers a target for each and every Mexican with a grudge,” Simmons said.  “I think that this is one of those circumstances where the best we can do is hunker down and endure it as best as we can.”

“Establishing massive refugee camps in New Mexico, or Texas, or even California,” the President said.  “That will be politically impossible; the Governors there have been screaming for the borders to be sealed, ever since the first sparks started to explode.  Do we just turn them back, or do we just shoot them down?”

Simmons smiled at the sarcasm.  “We might be better off with the refugee camps,” he said.  “If nothing else, it’s an opportunity to recruit more soldiers for the infantry, people we can offer citizenship to in exchange for service in the Army.  We are going to have to expand the army massively for the coming struggle and that will cost us badly.”

The President frowned.  “You believe, then, that the Pact is stringing us along?”

“I don’t think that there is any other way of looking at it,” Simmons said.  “Oh, the delay helps us as well, but…we need time to stand on the defensive, and the longer the uneasy peace lasts, the harder it will be before we can get everyone focused on fighting the war again.  What happens if the Pact…refuses to attack and just remains where it is?”

“We would have to evict them from Europe,” the President said.  “We would be in the position of firing the first shot and breaking the ceasefire.”

“It’s worse,” Simmons said.  He nodded towards the map.  “In the last two months, we have lost nearly a hundred transports of one kind or another to Russian submarines,” he said.  “We have lost several ships in the Indian Ocean, and the Mediterranean is a battle ground between the Europeans and the Russian Navy.  This pause is giving them a chance to rearm and reload their submarines…and our logistics are damaged enough already.  If the Indians manage to break the link between America and the Middle East, we might be in the position of having to abandon the Middle East, or failing that, to ask the Israelis for assistance.”

“They owe us enough,” General Armstrong pointed out.

“We were working to defuse the entire Middle East powder keg,” Simmons said.  he frowned; it hadn’t been an easy task, made harder by the fact that everyone in the world had an opinion on the subject.  The chaos in Iran had given America the chance to build a more peaceful state, the rise of representative government in Saudi had brought some of the darker aspects of Saudi Arabia to heel…and now all that was likely to be ruined.  “If we inject Israeli troops into the picture, everything is likely to go pear-shaped.”

“True,” the President said.  “General, please can you see for preparing a deployment that will make sure that everyone crossing the border is placed into a refugee camp, with civil affairs battalions working to make sure that they have something to eat and drink.  There’ll be a row over it, but I won’t send them back into hell, just because some politician wants them out of his state.”

“Yes, Mr President,” General Armstrong said.  “That does leave the matter of Australia.”

“I know,” the President said.  “What’s the evaluation?”

He looked at Simmons, who considered it.  “I have analysed all of the information in the chip we received from the Japanese,” he said.  “I have tried to keep an open mind, although the information is quite worrying, and I have attempted to match it up with information that was already in our position.  The information is…a little worrying; there are far too many signs that suggest that yes, the Japanese have a point and the Chinese do have their eyes on Australia.

“The first important note” – he tapped the display so that it followed his words – “are these satellite photographs, taken only yesterday by an orbiting microsat.  You’ll notice that there are not only a large force of Chinese ships from the PLAN in the region, including three of their carriers, but also a large force of transport aircraft.  These aircraft had been designed by the Russians, some of them are actually capable of carrying a heavy tank, and the official story is that they are there to provide support to counter-insurgency forces in Indonesia.  It’s overkill, Mr President; they might as well try to nuke the insurgents.”

He altered the image as he changed the subject.  “This is Airbase Seven,” he continued.  “The Chinese took over all of the air bases the Indonesian Government built over their time in power and modified them to accept fast-jet fighter aircraft, including some of the latest Chinese and Indian designs.   There have been several clashes between PLAAF aircraft and RAAF aircraft, flying out of Darwin and Tindal.  That's proof, if nothing else, that the Chinese can reach Australia; they might well have plans to launch an invasion.”

He took a breath.  “Finally, the Chinese and Indians have moved a sizeable force into Indonesia,” he concluded.  “Historically, as far as that word can be used, the Chinese have been allowed free reign in Indonesia, rather than risk a loss of support for the war and the policies in India.  The presence of a major Indian Marine force is worrying, to say the least; they’re expects in launching an attack against a defended target.  The Chinese have upwards of fifty thousand front-line soldiers there, in addition to their normal forces based within Indonesia; they might well have more than they can actually transport.  The Japanese pointed out, also, that many of the Chinese ships within the region were actually fully loaded…and there are no signs that the Chinese intend to unload them.”

The President rubbed his eyes.  Simmons eyed him worriedly; the President had been the first President since Truman to order an atomic bomb attack…and the first to face a nuclear strike launched against American targets.  Support for the war remained high, but the problems in the south and the endless political fight over who should command in the different theatres of war had cost him much of his sleep.  There seemed to be no easy solutions; if nothing else, Simmons was grimly certain that America’s complacency would never survive the war.

It still stunned him, as much as it had stunned anyone else, perhaps worse as he had been able to see much of what had happened behind the scenes.  The Pact had plotted everything almost perfectly, from tricking the Americans into sailing a fleet right into the range of their weapons, to arranging the defeat of the Poles before they could even realise that they were under attack.  If the Europeans had lost the first battle of Germany, the Russians would have been drinking wine in what was left of Paris before anything could be done to prevent disaster.

“What about the Australians?”  The President said finally.  “Can they stand off the invasion, if it comes, without much help?”

“It depends,” Simmons said.  He had spent a lot of time analysing how the Pact might intend to act.  “It’s hard to see how they intend to get an invasion fleet across the water without being detected, which means that they will need some other way to prevent the Australians from taking the offensive against them and preventing them from landing.  When they attacked Europe, they used insurgents to soften up Paris and Special Forces to soften up the military targets, so they might intend to repeat that trick.  Now, however, everyone knows about it; they would have to get through the defences around the Australian military bases.”

“We had better make sure that the Australians know to have their defences on alert,” General Armstrong said.  He studied the map thoughtfully, his face very grim.  “How much warning would we have?”

“Unknown,” Simmons said.  “We could move a stealth ship in, along with our submarines, and greet the invasion force with a hail of missiles.  We could even move up the carriers and add their forces to the Australian air force or…we could launch a pre-emptive strike of our own.  Take out their ships, take out the transports, and the invasion becomes impossible.”

“Politically unacceptable,” the President said, after a moment.  General Armstrong looked frustrated; Simmons shared the thought.  “That means, if nothing else, that they will launch the invasion as soon as the peace talks fail, assuming that they fail.”

“They will,” Simmons said.  “They won’t be willing to offer anything we will accept and vice versa.  The Pact…is just unwilling to compromise, because they have nothing to compromise with, not any longer.  If we ask them to take their borders back up to the Ukraine, they will refuse, unless we offer them something they want in exchange…and what can we offer them that they want?”

The President smiled thinly.  “Nothing,” he said.  “All we have to do, then, is prepare for the invasion…and hope that our resources don’t break under the strain.  What do we have that we can forward quickly to Australia?”

“The 1st Marine Division is handing over Iceland to a National Guard division,” General Armstrong said, after a quick check of his palmtop.  “The Marines are definitely the experts in this, and they’re the logical units for us to move there under any circumstances, so even if the Chinese pick up on the move, they are unlikely to suspect that they have been penetrated.  We’ll move the Marines as quickly as possible, through Panama and then across to Australia.  That should reassure the Australians that there is something being done to help them.”

“Good,” the President said.  “Now, what about the final matter?”

There was a pause.  “We have been unable to verify any of the Japanese claims about prisoners of war,” Simmons said, grimly.  He would have preferred to have screamed his frustration…and his own worry over the thousands of prisoners who had been plucked from the sea by the Chinese.  “Certainly, only a handful of the ones they told us they had were ever put in front of the cameras, but as to what the Chinese might be doing with them…frankly, Mr President, we have no way to tell.”

He paused.  “That said, there are definitely prison camps in western China,” he continued.  “We always believed that they housed political prisoners, from Tibet and the Muslim regions; the Chinese were brutal in crushing all resistance.  There may be still some underground movements there, but if they’re there, they’re keeping their heads down and trying not to be noticed.  Western Human Rights campaigners have never been allowed near the camps, so we don’t know what’s happening there, but…they could be doing anything from chopping down trees to serving as comfort women for the Chinese.”

“We have to get them out,” the President said.  The firmness in his voice admitted to no compromise.  He would get his people back, whatever it took; he had issued the orders that had put them in harm’s way.  Simmons felt oddly reassured; this President, at least, didn’t spend time trying to cover his own arse.  “Is there no way to get a team that far inside China?”

General Armstrong looked uncomfortable.  “I have passed the question onto SFC and the Teams, but many of them have blanched at the thought,” he said.  “We might be able to get a team inside the region, just to have a look at what’s happening, but getting them all out?  I don’t think it would be even remotely possible without some cooperation from someone on the inside, and we have no one…”

“Perhaps,” Simmons said.  A thought had occurred to him.  There might be a way to get someone to make contact with a handful of Chinese known to be willing to work with the West, or perhaps…the thought outlined itself in his head and he smiled as it solidified.  “There might be an option.”

“I’ll discuss it with the others,” General Armstrong said, after Simmons had outlined his plan.  “It might be possible, but it will be very – and I mean very – difficult.  That said, Mr President, however we do it, we’re looking at a very difficult task indeed…and one that could go very badly wrong indeed.”

Chapter Nine: Dark Doings in Europe

Paris, France

There were parts of Paris that looked like a war zone.

From his perch on top of one of the main residential areas, Osema Rahman – whose real name remained a carefully-held secret from his Palestinian and Algerian allies – watched as the French infantry advanced carefully down the main road, hunting for insurgents as they cleared Paris of the rebels that had been attempting to overthrow the government.  Only a fool, someone convinced that God was on his side, could have believed that it would have worked; France wasn’t anything like as weak as many had believed.  The irony amused him and he laughed, even as he remained carefully hidden; the French Government might have been destroyed, but that had placed power in the hands of a half-Arab.

It had been a good couple of months, however; Rahman had even enjoyed himself as he had led small teams against targets that had needed to be removed, in hopes of starting either a major racial war or a French withdrawal from NATO and EUROFOR.  Armouries within Paris had been seized before anything could alert their defenders, police and other organised opposition, from the fire service to the civil bureaucrats who were truly hated, had been targeted for extermination.  The chaos had wrecked most of Paris, but, in the end, it hadn’t prevented the French from taking part in the war.

Rahman might have admired the new French President, under other circumstances; he had managed to neutralise most of the insurgency by sealing the cities and waiting patiently for most of the fighting to subside.  Now, the remainder of the insurgency, after falling into internal fighting, bickering and near-starvation, was being destroyed; the French infantrymen below looked ready to kill at a moment’s provocation.  Any insurgents they captured, he suspected, would be taken to one of the camps outside the city, where they would be guarded and perhaps transported back to Algeria.  Many of them hadn’t come from Algeria, or even Palestine, but the French were in a murderous mood; the damage to their own capital city had knocked all of the sophistication out of them.

A crackle of fire echoed across the rooftops as an insurgent tried to fight.  They hadn’t been trained soldiers; the closest things that the insurgency had had compared to trained soldiers had been lost in the brutal fighting when the overall council had attempted to prevent the French from reclaiming their city.  A French armoured car put a burst of machine gun fire into the insurgent position, slaughtering them without mercy.  Rahman wasn’t surprised; he hadn’t expected mercy, or indeed even a chance to surrender.

He stood up and headed quickly down the stairs to the apartment he had commandeered, a week ago, when it had become obvious that the insurgency had only a few days left before starvation and French bullets put an end to it.  There was still fighting in the south of France, but it wasn’t enough to defeat the French, it could never have hoped to defeat the French.  The plan had failed…and that, Rahman felt, was the worst defeat of all.

His orders had been clear; he was to avoid capture if possible, failing that, he was to pose as an Indian Trade Attaché from the Embassy, which had been burned during the first days of the fighting.  That, too, hadn’t been a surprise; the different defence forces in the embassies had fought with the insurgents as they attempted to kill the foreign diplomats, with special attention being paid to the American and British Embassies.  The British had managed to hold their embassy; one of their BBC reporters had even compared it to the siege of Peking, and other diplomats had escaped to join them.

A harsh voice called out a question in French.  “Don’t shoot,” he shouted down, putting a real quaver in his voice.  “I’m a diplomat, don’t shoot…”

Two French soldiers burst into the room, weapons raised, and searched him roughly.  They didn’t find any weapons, or anything, but his ID card from the Embassy and some money.  He half-expected them to rob him, but instead they took him outside and placed him inside a van, transporting him out of the city.  It was better than he had hoped for…

“You will be interned, along with the other diplomats from the Pact countries,” a French Captain informed him.  Rahman kept his face carefully blank; only a few people at the Embassy knew of him, and they didn’t know what he had been doing for a living.  “Once the…hostilities are over, you will be returned to your country.”

“Thank you,” Rahman said, in French.  “Thank you for saving me.”

The officer lifted an eyebrow.  “Enlighten me, monsieur,” he said.  “How did you survive the rebels?”

Rahman had expected that question.  “I was…visiting friends,” he said.  “She…ah, they were” – he smiled sheepishly at the officer’s smile – “caught up in the riots and I just hid in her house until the riots went down.  She went out to…see a friend and she never came back and I waited and waited and finally your men came to free me.”

“Indeed,” the officer said.  “I hope that you enjoy your new accommodation.”

Rahman was certain of it.

***
“The Americans are asking for what?”

Marcel Yacef, President of France under the entirely reasonable circumstances of everyone higher up the chain being killed in the early stages of the uprising, studied the commander of the French Army with considerable alarm.  He had only recently been briefed on one of the most secret French military operations in the world; the discovery that the Americans had known about it for…well, certainly a few years was alarming.

“It’s not the Americans, or at least it’s not the Americans who knew,” General Vincent Pelletier assured him.  General Pelletier was wearing two hats, one as the senior officer in the French Army, and the other as the Minister of Defence.  The senior ranks of the French Army, along with the other Minister of Defence, had also been killed in the uprising; the death toll continued to horrify Yacef every time he thought about it.  “It was the British who knew.”

“Splendid,” Yacef said.  “How many of our other secrets do the British know?”

“It’s hard to know for certain,” Pelletier said.  “The British have a long history of merely keeping some intelligence to themselves until they are ready to use it, perhaps never breathing a word to anyone about it.  Of course, we know plenty about their operations…”

“This operation was set up under the agreement that it would remain a secret,” Yacef said.  “Can it even still work in the midst of a war?”

“We believe that it still works, at least as far as Central Asia,” Pelletier assured him.  “The Chinese and the Russians know nothing about it, or they would have shut it down, so…do we agree to the American request or do we tell them no?”

Yacef tossed the question back at him.  “Do we agree to give them what they want?”

“It’s a political question and I’m not a very political general,” Pelletier said.  “It’s your decision, Mr President.”

Yacef nodded slowly.  “Politically, helping America would be something favourable, these days,” he said.  “A year ago, we could only have helped them under the table; if it got out that we had helped them, it would have had a bad effect on the government.  The Americans helped us when the Russians came over the border and…we might need the gratitude of the American Government…General, can the whole mad plan work?”

Pelletier frowned.  “It depends on the assumptions that you put into the plan,” he said.  “If – if – the American intelligence is accurate, then the plan is workable, if risky.  The Americans would be supplying much of the force themselves; only a handful of our people would be at risk and…Mr President, permission to speak freely?”

“Always,” Yacef said shortly.

“We owe the Americans,” Pelletier said.  “Militarily, the entire scheme sounds crazy, but I believe that it’s workable, if we help.  Without our help, the Americans would have to do it themselves, and given what they would need to do it, they would risk exposing our operations as well.  Under other circumstances, I would advise that we did the entire operation ourselves, but given what’s at stake…”

“We don’t want the blame for fucking it up,” Yacef said wryly.  “Very well; please see to it that the Americans get whatever they need from us, within reason.”

“Understood,” Pelletier said.  “Good luck with the meeting this afternoon.”

Yacef glanced at his watch.  “An hour,” he said.  “Update me if anything changes in the situation.”

He spent the next hour reading through reports from the Mediterranean battlezone.  The Russian Navy had scored several successes in the middle of the sea, damaging or sinking Italian, Spanish and French units, while using Algerian bases to mount attacks on the European mainland.  European aircraft had struck back at Algeria, but the Russians were determined to keep their bases in Algeria, despite the Pact’s firm anti-Islamic stance.  It was a paradox, but Yacef suspected he understood; expediency trumped politics, at least when the war was on.  The Algerian Scud missiles weren’t particularly accurate at all – one had been tracked reversing its course and coming down on Algeria to general hilarity – but there were too many of them.  The TMD system had run out of missiles long ago.

It was almost a relief when his secretary summoned him for the meeting.  Paperwork had been the one task he had disliked from being a politician…and there was plenty of it.  He left the remainder of the briefing papers and allowed his secretary to escort him into a simple meeting room, with coffee and snacks already provided.  Three men stood up to meet him; the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, the German Chancellor, and General Trautman.  Yacef would have preferred Pelletier or another Frenchman in the SACEUR post, but Trautman had been the only realistic European candidate.

“Welcome back to Paris,” he said, shortly.  The three men would have been flown in directly from a nearby French Air Force base.  The Russians had hammered several bases with standoff weapons during the war; the French – and everyone else, he supposed – would be taking advantage of the pause in hostilities to repair what they could.  It was a shame that jet fighters couldn’t be rebuilt at the speed a runway could be repaired.  “It’s good to see you again.”

It was true; he liked the three men more than he liked to admit.  He would have liked to have spent more time just talking, but there wasn’t much time.  “General Trautman, could you start by giving us a briefing on the military situation?”

“Certainly,” General Trautman said.  He was blonde, shorter than Yacef had expected; he was clearly competent, if not outstanding among the current crop of Generals.  “As you know, the Russians have generally honoured the truce that we agreed to at Cottbus, two weeks ago.  There has only been one small clash between our forces and a Russian patrol, and that was a very brief encounter in the neutral zone.  Shots were exchanged, and then both sides hightailed it out of there.  There have been some nasty encounters in the air, but by and large the front has been quiet.”

His hand ran along a line on the map.  “We have evacuated much of Berlin to refugee camps in the rear of Germany and France,” he continued.  “Berlin is now being held by several infantry units that have been preparing the city to resist a storming attack from the Russians.  Given the Russian positions, it is far too likely that they can retake Berlin anytime they want with a pincer attack; it is also possible that they might simply attempt to seal the city off again, and then strike west into the heart of Germany.

“Our main defence line starts along the Elbe, although the Russians have actually reached the Elbe in a couple of places,” he continued.  “We have been working like mad dogs to establish a proper defence in depth; the line is actually getting more powerful the longer we work at it.  We have several armoured divisions dug in to provide a reserve force and seal off any Russian attack that punches though the main attack.

“Smaller Special Forces units have been deployed between the neutral zone and the main defence line,” he said, as his hand tapped the map.  “We expect that the Russians will launch their own Spetsnaz into the rear of our own lines, like they did before, and we have most of our vital points heavily guarded.  Some of our forces are operating behind their own lines, some of them will work to slow up the Russians when they come towards us…”

Prime Minister McLachlan coughed.  “How much do you expect them to achieve?”

“We hope that they will slow the Russians enough for us to react,” Trautman said.  “We have been using the mines and other weapons that we have recently been supplied with, despite those stupid protestors, to build a defence line that should slow the Russians down for a few hours.  In fact…”

Yacef smiled grimly.  Protestors in all three nations had protested against the construction of landmines.  In Germany and France, some refugees had set upon the protesters, violently enough to put many of them in hospitals.  He hadn’t approved, but he had understood; many of the refugees had lost everything because the European armies hadn’t been strong enough to defend their countries when the crunch had come.  It was human nature to look for someone – anyone – to blame…and the protestors had just been the unlucky victims.

“The downside is that we have very few reserves,” Trautman admitted.  Yacef pulled himself back to full awareness with a jolt.  “There are few reserves left, apart from the units deployed along the line; there are only a few tanks in Europe that are not part of the army facing the Russians.  We have plenty of recruits and conscripts, but arming them is a serious problem, even with the emergency purchases of weapons from uninvolved countries.”

“I see,” Yacef said.  He was chairing the meeting, after all.  “What’s the bottom line?”

“The bottom line is simple,” Trautman said.  “If the Russians come across the line and beat us, we will not be able to make a stand until France, perhaps not even then.”

There was a long pause.  “We have a choice to make,” Yacef said, addressing his fellow leaders.  “We have been invited to a general peace conference, to take place next week, where the Russians will offer their price for peace.  What are we prepared to accept?”

“The Americans intend to demand a Russian withdrawal back at least as far as Belarus,” Chancellor Hans Konigsberg said.  The German’s face was pallid and weak; he had lost weight in his days as Germany’s first wartime Chancellor since Adolph Hitler.   “General, can we make them withdraw if they refuse?”

Trautman’s eyes were grim.  “Not unless we get massive reinforcements,” he said.  “The Russians are historically very good at holding a defensive position and they have invested thousands of hours in training their men to oppose standard NATO tactics.  We might cut off a Russian unit to discover that it will cut its way out of the trap, or just dig in and refuse to budge.  We just don’t have the vehicles or the logistics to take the offensive.”

Yacef blinked.  “You took back Berlin…”

“And paid a heavy price for it,” Trautman said.  “The Russians played merry hell with our logistics, and we lost hundreds of tanks, both European and American.  We don’t have anything reassembling the movement capability to move supplies to the easy; we had to press commercial vehicles into service to support the attack and lost many of them.  My people have been looking at possible ways to move around the Russian positions, such as landing a force in the Baltic States, but even then our supply lines would be shot to hell.”

He closed his eyes for a long moment.  “Sirs, with all due respect, the best we can hope to do, at the moment, is holding the line.”

“Understood,” Yacef said.  “So, what do we ask at the peace conference?”

“The Russians may want other concessions,” Chancellor Hans Konigsberg pointed out.  “We could offer them ironclad investment guarantees…”

“They don’t need them so much now,” McLachlan pointed out.  Yacef frowned; the British had a certain immunity to direct invasion that neither of the other two powers enjoyed.  “They may want to hold on to Poland and the Ukraine, both of which we have some obligations to liberate.  Do we abandon them if the Russians ask for them in exchange for peace?”

Yacef looked down at his hands.  “The French economy has taken a beating,” he said.  He had taken the opportunity to get rid of much of the bureaucratic nonsense that had crippled the French economy over the last few decades, but they really needed peace, peace to grow into something worth having.  “It takes us months to produce a Eurotank; with the crash programs, we might have some newer tanks within three months, if we are lucky.  Can we afford to continue to fight the war…?”

Trautman spoke into the silence.  “If the reports from Poland are accurate, everyone who was anyone in the pre-invasion state has been rounded up and shipped east, while the Russians work on reshaping Polish society.  Can we afford not to fight the war?”

Yacef wondered, just for a moment, what had happened to Europe.  The answer was all too clear.  They had allowed themselves to become convinced that peace was the natural state of the world and that had clearly been a dreadful mistake.  The Russians had proven that, in the end, strong words are only useful if there was a heavy military force backing them up.

“True,” he said finally.  Something was going to break; the only question was what was about to break.  “We seem to have no choice, but to fight.”

Chapter Ten: The Price of a Humiliating Defeat

Geneva, Switzerland

“Welcome to the conference room, Prime Minister,” the aide said.  “I trust that you will enjoy your visit.”

“Thank you,” Prime Minister Mohandas Singh said, in perfect English.  There was no nation quite like the Swiss.  “I’m sure that I will.”

The delegation from the Pact, consisting of Singh himself, the Russian Foreign Minister Fedya Molotin and the Chinese Foreign Minister Song Ling had been housed together in a simple waiting room, allowing international protocol to be observed.  Singh himself wouldn’t have cared if either the NATO allies or his own people entered the conference room first, but the Swiss were trying to ensure that no one walked away from the meeting offended.  Switzerland would make a hard target for the Russians, or even the French and Germans, but they would attempt to remain on good terms with their neighbours.  They would enter together.

With such oil the wheels of international relationships are greased, Singh thought.  Patience wasn’t a hard skill to master; he had spent four years preparing the ground for the war that had crippled America and the West.  With Chinese forces in position to leap across to Taiwan, Russian forces halfway into Germany, and Indian forces dominating the Middle East, the Pact was in a very strong position indeed.  It was stronger than it seemed; Pact allies were grinding their way through Africa and Latin America.  If the Americans agreed to the terms that Singh intended to offer them, the Pact would be well-placed to dominate the world.

“They’re making us wait on purpose,” Molotin commented, his voice grim.  Singh knew that there was a power battle going on in Moscow, one that had not – yet – broken out into the open, but Molotin was clearly a supporter of one side or the other.  Russian politics were always somewhat murky to outsiders, but the last thing the Pact needed was a power struggle crippling its ability to wage war.  “The Americans have put them up to it.”

“That would be unwise of them,” Singh commented.  He was the senior representative, but he knew that success had weakened the bonds that had held the Pact together; the Russians and the Chinese had their own objectives in mind.  It had been hard enough to convince the Russians and the Chinese to agree to forget the past and settle on a vague border that left both sides privately convinced that they had come out ahead, but their success risked weakening them.  If one power thought that the others had come out ahead of them, while they had carried all the risk…

He elaborated.  “The Swiss want to stay out of the fighting,” he explained.  “They won’t offend us because we have a large army far too close to them, and they won’t offend the Americans because it’s the Americans who will come to rescue them if we attack them, ergo they will try to show no favours to either side.”  He paused.  “Besides, we do have to keep our diplomatic lines open.”

They waited.  They had discussed their options at great length, working through every possible variation, from craven cowardliness to grim defiance.  Singh knew better than to think that they would just be given what they wanted, on a platter, but there was a certain…irony in getting what they wanted – actually wanted – without having to fight for it.  There was little point in going over everything again; they all knew their lines…and they didn’t need the confusion.

The Swiss diplomat returned to the room.  “The main room is ready for you, sirs,” he said.  He would be a senior diplomat, despite his youth; Singh appreciated the honour, even though the young man would be sacrificed at the drop of a hat if something went wrong.  “Please would you follow me?”

The main conference room had been designed to be soothing.  Singh appreciated the artwork, even as he saw the one woman and three men who would be his opponents, an American woman, an Englishman, a Frenchman and a German.  An old joke bubbled up in his mind and he forced it down; there was no time for humour, not now.  Offhand, he couldn’t remember any successful diplomatic discussions that had started with the leader of one side dissolving into laughter, but…

The American woman was Joan Davidson, their Secretary of State; the Americans, at least, were taking the discussions seriously.  The British man was their new Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs – the previous incumbent having been killed by Russian missiles – Matthew Forbes.  He didn’t recognise either the Frenchman or the German; the losses in both of their governments had cost them most of their senior civil servants and political appointees.  It remained to be seen if the Russians had done them a favour or not.

Brief introductions were made.  The Frenchman turned out to be Jacques Montebourg, their temporary Foreign Minister; the German was Kurt Schmitt, Special Representative of the Chancellor.  The atmosphere was cordial, more than Singh had dared hope for; there was room, perhaps, for something to come out of the discussions.  The Frenchman looked…unsure of himself, a sign of his youth, while the German looked grim.  The Germans were right in the middle of the war, after all; who else at the table could say that?

“I believe that we all know why this happened,” Singh said.  There was a point to reciting everything on the Pact’s manifesto; it would establish the framework for their relationship…and the discussions.  “For the past fifty years, America has dominated the world…and has forced hundreds of little…cancers to develop without finding a natural release.   This has had a serious effect on the world at large; there was no solution to the Korean Problem, the Pakistani Problem, the Iraq Problem, the Cuban Problem and dozens of others…until those problems started to explode in your collective face.  America…is the cause of all the world’s ills.”

He waited for a response from the American.  “You make it sound as if we personally pushed the button that devastated Delhi,” Joan said.  “What next; will you accuse us of somehow preventing the Taiwanese from returning to the fold?”

“My point is very simple,” Singh said.  “You have assumed the role of first above equals; not first among equals, but first above equals.  Your…claim to an exceptional role in the world came to an end at Taiwan.  Before we make any substantive discussions, we would like you to accept, now, that this is a gathering of equals.”

It wasn’t, of course; none of the Europeans could match the Pact without American support.  Given enough time, and no distractions, the Pact could crush Western Europe, perhaps even leap across to Britain.  The Europeans were marginal players in the war at best; the only chance for a united European super-state had floundered on cold hard reality.  It made for an interesting dynamic; the Europeans didn’t care about the Pacific, but were bound to support the Americans.

Joan lifted an eyebrow.  “There hasn’t been a single issue in the past fifty years that you Americans have not inserted yourself into,” Singh said.  “The entire…Suez incident, the problems in the Balkans, Afghanistan, Saudi Arabia, Mexico, Cuba, the states in Eastern Europe…and Pakistan.  Yes, we in India hold you responsible for that; altering the facts to fit your conceptions is something that you Americans do all the time…and it cost us, not you.”

He thumped the table.  “It never costs you anything!”

He took a long breath.  “And you moralise,” he continued.  He wondered if his speech would convince the Europeans to break with the Americans, but knew that it wouldn’t; there was nothing that the Pact was prepared to give up that would achieve that.  “I could understand – I could accept – you running an Empire, but you moralise!  You can’t run your own little empire…and yet you lecture every state on the planet as to how they should run their affairs.  Those days are over!  Understand; we are sincere in our desire to make peace, but it will be peace on equal terms.”

“One might argue that American interests are global,” Joan said mildly.  Singh was mildly impressed; the American President had chosen his representative well.  Some people would be screaming abuse by now.  “Whatever happens in the world, affects America.”

“Not any longer,” Singh pointed out.  “Tell me, are you going to try to rebuild your little network of assets that cost you much more in the long run?”

“Perhaps,” Joan said.  She paused.  “You asked us to meet, to discuss a peace agreement; what do you have in mind.”

Singh smiled.  “Have you accepting the principle that we are talking as equals?”

“To some extent,” Joan said.  Her voice was still calm.  “In the long run…”

“You understand, of course, that collectively the Pact nations possess a vast amount of military firepower, aircraft, technology…and land space,” Singh said.  “It will take you years to subdue us, if you devoted everything to that task…and you will be clawed in the process.  You cannot defeat us, so…you have to talk to us.”

The Englishman spoke before Joan could say anything.  “Perhaps you would like to outline the proposals you intend to make,” he said.  “We could then decide if they were acceptable, or if they were not, to engage in…modifications until we agreed on a compromise.”

Singh nodded.  He had some small respect for the English, not least because they had held his own people down and that wasn’t easy.  “There are three fields of operations for our forces, four if Latin America is included.”  He sensed Joan’s surprise and concerned a smile.  “We are not – officially – allied with the forces in Latin America, but the movements there have some…interests in common with ourselves.

“I will be blunt,” he continued.  “First, the Middle East; we have occupied Iran and prevented the Iranians from sending subversion over the border into what was once Pakistan.  America has historically used its position of strength in the Middle East to control the oil flow…and we regard that as unacceptable.  We intend to remain in firm possession of Iran to secure our southern border…and just incidentally prevent a resurgence of Islamic terrorism.”

Joan said nothing.  “Second, the Pacific,” Singh continued.  The Pacific had been the hardest region to secure any solution at all, not least because of the presence of Japan, Australia and New Zealand.  “We have ensured a massive shift in the balance of power and we intend to ensure that that remains intact…”

“In your favour, in other words,” Joan injected.

“Precisely,” Singh agreed.  He didn’t want to mince his words with this formidable woman.  “We are prepared to offer Taiwan a place within China under the one-nation, two-systems concept, with Taiwan being permitted a heavy dose of autonomy.  In any case, the American alliance with and support of Taiwan will come to an end.  The Japanese will be permitted to remain their independence, provided that they choose to abandon their nuclear weapons and submit to inspections, but they will not be permitted any outside support or military alliance.

“The position of control held over Indonesia and the remainder of East Asia will be recognised,” he continued.  “The American bases at Guam, what remains of them, will be shut down; the United States Navy will not develop any bases past Pearl Harbour.  We will make no demands on Australia, provided only that Australia neither goes nuclear, nor serves as a base for American or other Commonwealth ships.  The same goes for New Zealand.  Diego Garcia will be handed over to its native inhabitants and the remains of the base there will be shut down.”

He took a breath.  “The Pacific will become the economic domain of its natives,” he concluded.  “The main source of investment will be the Pact and Japan; outside investment will be discouraged….”

Joan smiled.  “And what are you going to do on the eighth day?”

Singh grinned.  Joan did have a point.  “In Europe,” he continued.  “In Europe, we will insist that all American units leave as a condition of the agreement.  We are prepared to pull back most of our forces into Poland, which will continue to be governed by Prime Minister Molobo, who is the senior surviving member of the government.  Similar agreements will be concluded with the Baltic States and the Ukraine, which will have their security needs supplied by Russian forces, therefore preventing NATO from being in a position to attack the Russian motherland.  The EUROFOR units will remain in Germany and there will be no European deployment permitted into anywhere east of the German border.  The position of Russian minorities within Eastern Europe will not be interfered with, nor will they be permitted to suffer any persecution from the natives.”

“I see,” Joan said.  “And to round it all off?”

“You will recognise the Pact as an association that any nation can join,” Singh concluded.  “If a state in Latin America, or Africa, or even Europe, decides to join, you will not attempt to prevent them, you will not attempt to alter their government in any way and you will not attempt to prevent any Pact military forces from entering the countries to secure their independence.  In effect, agreements like the Monroe Doctrine will come to an end; who were you to force nations to align their policies to suit you?

Joan snorted.  “Is that it?”

Singh allowed himself a slightly bemused look.  “That’s it,” he said.  “Might I ask for your response?”

“We must consult, briefly,” Joan said.  “If you will excuse us…?”

Singh nodded.  The four NATO representatives left the room.  “They’re not going to agree,” Song said, as soon as the door had closed.  “Prime Minister…?”

“No, they won’t,” Singh agreed.  “They might accept some points – ten years ago, they would have been delighted to watch us crushing the Iranians – but they won’t buy the entire package.  It would have been easier to sell diet control pills as suicide tablets.”

Five minutes later, the door opened again.  “That was quick,” Singh said, as the four representatives returned.  “Dare I assume that you have come to an agreement?”

“You are correct to say that we have come to an agreement,” Joan said.  “There was very little discussion actually required on something that…sounded like it had been dreamed up by a madman.  You are asking us, in effect, to surrender to you, almost unconditionally.”

“You exaggerate,” Singh said, when he could trust himself to speak again.  “We are asking you to accept that the world has changed beyond anything you might have expected before the war began.”

Joan took her seat and laced her fingers together.  “You are asking us to…abandon members of NATO, Poland and the Baltic States,” she said.  “you are asking us to abandon our Iranian allies and our…friends in Europe to a position of permanent subordination to the Pact.  You are asking us to abandon our attempts to bring democracy to Latin America…”

“Any movement supported by the people in Latin America has often been squashed by American bullets, or American-supplied weapons,” Singh observed.  “I thought that we had agreed that hypocrisy would play no part in our discussions?”

Joan ignored his sally.  “We have very clear evidence that your forces in Poland have been committing vast abuses of the civilian population,” she said, addressing the Russian directly.  “This is…not a series of isolated incidents, but a deliberate policy intended to break the Polish people to your yoke.  The same has been committed in Iran and Indonesia…”

“Cheered on by your people,” Singh reminded her.  “When we hung the mad mullah who was in charge of the slaughter of everyone he didn’t like, millions of Americans stood up and cheered.  When we burned entire villagers, they cheered…”

“And they are people that we have an obligation to defend,” Joan said, ignoring him.  “You are asking us to abandon them.”

“And you are saying no,” Singh said.  He kept his voice very calm.  “Are you prepared to pay the cost, in blood and treasure, that will be required to…liberate them?”

He gave the sign to Fedya Molotin.  “What are you prepared to offer in return?”  The Russian asked.  It was a blunt question, typically Russian.  They had expected that the Europeans would be reluctant to actually attempt to put forward proposals.  “What do you want and what are you prepared to offer in exchange for it?”

“We want you to abandon your conquests,” the Frenchman said.  Singh studied the interplay with some interest; the German hadn’t spoken, but the Frenchman seemed to be speaking for him as well.  He wondered, privately, what they had said to one another.  “We are prepared to make ironclad guarantees regarding the future status of NATO alliances, but we are not prepared to just…abandon the populations you have enslaved.”

The German spoke next.  “There is room for discussions,” he said.  “There is plenty of worth in the…suggestions that you have put forward, but we cannot simply fold now, if you will pardon the metaphor.  We cannot abandon agreements that we have made, just because…”

Singh smiled.  The Germans had once been a respectable military nation.  He would have thought that having half of the nation occupied would have taught them something about how unpleasant life could be.  The jibe came easily to his lips.  “You suddenly have to live up to them?”

“Yes,” Joan said shortly.  “America’s word is good.  We will negotiate, but not at the point of a gun.”  She paused.  “You are prepared to hold a second discussion?”

“Of course,” Singh said, knowing that it was futile.  The Americans wouldn’t agree, he saw that now; they wouldn’t offer anything that made the rather extreme demands they had come up with worth abandoning.  He hadn’t expected it to work.  “We are willing to discuss them further, but I should mention that haste is of the essence.”  He smiled thinly.  “We wouldn’t want the position to worsen, would we?”

Chapter Eleven: Sons of Erin

Near Kiev, Ukraine

“That’s their bridge there,” the Ukrainian officer said.  “That needs to come down quickly.”

Colonel Ruairi Heekin checked through his binoculars from their position, hopefully well-hidden from any prowling Russian drones or helicopters.  The Irish Battalion had once considered of seven hundred men, deployed into the Ukraine to help keep the peace, unaware that there was no longer any peace to actually keep.  The EUROFOR units within the Ukraine had been targeted in the opening moves of the war, first by Russian-trained Russian minority activists from the Ukraine, and then by Russian troops directly, attempting to destroy them before they realised that there was a war on their hands.  Heekin wasn’t sure, now, what orders he’d given; everything was a blur in his mind, from the first shooting to their escape into the countryside along with some renegade Ukrainian soldiers.

They’d spent a month just trying to recuperate and locate a secure base of operations.  They’d been lucky to encounter Captain Vasyl, a Ukrainian officer on the run himself from the Russians, and his men; without him, they would have been likely to have been hunted down and killed within the first month.  The few reports they had had from Europe hadn’t been welcome; the Russians had marched into Europe and reached Berlin.  Russian propaganda, in the Ukraine, was claiming vast victories; the handful of updates that Heekin had received hadn’t been much better.  The war wasn’t going well.

The Russians had been busy down below on the Dnieper River, Heekin could see; they’d already secured all of the major bridges and dams, but they had also been building a massive bridge over the river near Kiev, where thousands of tanks and lorries were already crossing, heading west.  Heekin had no doubt at all where the vehicles were going, in the end; they had to be heading to Europe.  The Russians might have been planning more counter-insurgency campaigns, but they wouldn’t be wasting T-100 tanks and heavy IFV units on Ukrainian partisans.  The Russians had a strong grip on the country now, aided by the Russians who had lived in the east of Ukraine; there was much less resistance than Heekin had expected.

“They killed most of the senior officers in the first attacks,” Vasyl had explained, once.  “They were targeted first, as natural leaders, along with everyone else who might have led resistance, from politicians to policemen.  The only ones who survived were the damned Russians from the east.”

Heekin winced as he studied their target.  The Ukraine had no government-in-exile, or even a unified resistance command; the Russians had proven themselves to be very good at tracking down and breaking the cells that sprang into existence.  No one knew who to trust; they’d heard a story, from Kiev, about a man who had been recruiting young men to fight…right into the heart of the gulag.  Everyone who had signed up had gone with him willingly...and the Russians had just scooped them up with ease.  No one knew what had happened to them, although Vasyl had a suspicion that the Russians had simply liquidated them, or put them to work somewhere in Siberia.  

“It’s not going to be easy,” he warned.  The small EUROFOR detachment was perhaps the best armed and equipped underground force carrying on the fight, but it was also much weaker than he would have liked; their weapons had only a small amount of ammunition.  He had hoped to secure one of the ammunition bunkers, but the Russians hadn’t repeated the American mistake of 2003; they’d secured and destroyed most of the ammunition and weapons floating around before any resistance could form.  “That place is heavily guarded.”

He had a suspicion why Vasyl had selected the target; it was clear that the Russians were using it to support their efforts in Europe, rather than just the Ukraine.  He didn’t blame the Ukrainian, not really, but he had only a few men and fewer weapons.  He didn’t even have proper orders; the Swedish force that had included the commanding officer had surrendered…and no one knew what had happened to them since then.  Heekin had been lucky to escape, but he didn’t want to just abandon the first, or waste his men.

“No,” Vasyl agreed.  They studied the Russian defences for a moment; the Russians had taken over a small village, though the simple expedient of driving away the villagers, apart from a handful of young and not-so-young girls.  Heekin had seen enough to make him determined not to allow the Russians a chance to get comfortable in the village, let along march all the way to his own Ireland; the Russians were clearly taking advantage of the subject population.  They had not only fortified the village, but they had emplaced a small set of AFV vehicles nearby, armed with machine guns and heavy cannons.  They would have to be taken out…and that wouldn’t be easy.  “What do you say?”

A scream rent the air.  “I say we do it,” Heekin said.  He looked down at his watch; the Russians ran convoys through every hour on the hour, rather than just sending vehicles forward on their own.  He wanted to see that as an encouraging sign, rather than something worrying; the Russians probably thought that there was something to worry about.  Hopefully, some partisans to the east were giving them a hard time.  “We’ll let the next convoy go past and then hit them.”

He ignored Vasyl’s disappointed look.  Hitting a convoy would have been a real blow against the Russians, but the Russians backed up their convoy escorts with more armoured vehicles and helicopters, doubling their striking power.  They would have the guards on alert as well, watching for trouble; they wouldn’t want to appear lazy in front of the senior officers commanding the convoy, would they?  Heekin knew that he wouldn’t have…and the Russians had harsher ways of enforcing discipline than the Irish armed forces had ever used.  They’d watched a penal battalion go to work…and he had almost felt sorry for the Russian soldiers.

The main force was hiding further in the woods.  “Sean, I want you and Sinead on the mortars,” he ordered.  He hadn’t been keen on the idea of women serving in combat, not least because of what Sinead could expect if she fell into Russian hands, but she was a dab hand with the modified Euro-mortar.  The device itself was a miracle of production…and it had only cost twice the expected price, back when it had been placed into production.  “Load the antitank shells and take out those armoured vehicles, you understand?”

They nodded.  He would have been happier with two mortar teams, or even some real artillery, but he hadn’t been able to save any of the other mortars.  The EUROFOR HQ, in its infinitive wisdom, had refused to send any heavy guns to the Ukraine; he had given some serious thought to trying to steal a few Russian weapons.  The Ukrainians had plenty of smaller Russian weapons, but there were few heavy weapons in their arsenal either.

He issued his other orders as the noise of the Russian convoy echoed through the trees.  He’d taken the precaution of setting up a small visual sensor near the village, connected to a small computer through a fibre-optic line; he watched as the Russians passed through without pausing for long.  The guards, he noticed with some amusement, made rude gestures after the convoy; the Russian commander had shouted something at them.

Probably something along the lines of ‘no slacking,’ he thought, as the assault force carefully slipped into position.  He would have preferred to have attacked at night, but they had few night-vision goggles and other equipment; they were, in some ways, forced right back to the days of the Second World War.  There were differences; they were nearing a region contaminated with radiation, they had been forced to learn about it as part of the EUROFOR briefing for the region.  Above all, they had been warned not to try to burst the dams, just to prevent a disaster.  It had sounded a little far-fetched to him, but he knew better than to dismiss the threat.

He glanced down at his pocket terminal.  Normally, he could have used it to coordinate the fight, but now, with the Russians so close, it would have been suicidal.  If either of the two teams he had sent away from the main force had run into trouble, they would have signalled, but otherwise he would have to rely on the commonsense and discipline of his junior officers.  The Ukrainians might have hated the Russians, with good reason, but they would follow orders; they knew that they had no choice, but to win.

“That’s the tanker there,” Sergeant Royce pointed out.  His voice was a hiss; the Irish force hadn’t been given any sub-vocal equipment either.  “Sir?”

Heekin nodded.  “Are you sure that you can drive that thing?”

“I can drive anything,” Royce assured him.  “Just make sure that it remains intact and I can drive it.”

The timer ticked down to zero.  Precisely on time, Sinead and Sean launched the first mortar shell towards the enemy vehicles.  The new shells were a vast improvement over the older shells, to some extent, they could even be guided, following in on a pulse of laser light that one of the team was shining down on the target.  The shell landed right on top of a Russian vehicle…and destroyed it in a blast of fire.

“Move,” Heekin snapped, as his team ran forward.  They fired as they came, targeting the Russians unlucky enough to be caught out in the open, or enjoying the favours of the comfort women.  A second explosion blasted out as the mortar team hit a second Russian vehicle, then a third; they had to have hit a smaller collection of fuel.  Some Russians were attempting to fight back and Heekin threw himself to the ground as one of them returned fire with a machine gun, pouring fire into his ranks.  “Grenade!”

“Fire in the hole,” Royce shouted, as he unhooked a grenade from his belt, pulled the pin, and tossed it neatly into one of the houses.  There was an explosion, followed rapidly by a second explosion; several soldiers took advantage of the confusion to hurl themselves into the house, weapons raised, and mow down any Russians left in the building.  “Colonel, move!”

Inch by bloody inch, the Russians were cleaned out of the village.  Caught by surprise, resistance was hopeless, but they fought anyway, and almost held the village.  Heekin was forced to use more of his mortar shells than he would have liked, just knocking out a couple of Russian strongpoint; they’d been very lucky that the Russians hadn’t been able to bring their vehicles into the fight.  They only had a few antitank weapons…

“Maggie, did they manage to send a signal?”

Maggie, one of the other women in the force and the best communications tech he’d ever worked with, frowned.  “I'm not sure, sir,” she admitted, as she came forward.  “We might have picked up a microburst, but they’re almost impossible to detect unless you have the precise signal and frequency, and we had neither.”

Heekin muttered a curse under his breath.  Up close, the Russians had done a better job than he had expected on the bridge, much better than he had thought.  They’d clearly intended to stay longer than a few days; the bridge would last for weeks, if not months, an ingenious combination of wood and stone, built by combat engineers.  No one had ever accused the Russians of lacking in competence, or bravery; they didn’t have anything like enough explosives to destroy the bridge on their own.

“Royce,” he said, “get the tanker over, now.”

Time was limited.  The Russians had a major base at Kiev, mainly equipped with infantry and helicopters.  Given enough time, they could mount a relief operation, or even attempt to encircle his force and trap them, which meant that he had limited time to act.  Even as Vasyl’s men started the important, but grim task of stripping the Russian bodies, Sergeant Royce took the wheel of the tanker and started to hotwire it to move.

“Ah, easy, sir,” he called.  “Just like stealing me daddy’s car when I was a nipper.”

Heekin just laughed tiredly.  “Is that thing full?”

“Enough fuel in this thing to run an entire army,” Royce assured him, almost cheerful now that the opportunity for larceny had presented itself.  Royce would never rise any higher in the army, not with the string of disciplinary notes following him around, but he was a good man to have and Heekin was very relieved to have him.  “I’ll just move it onto the bridge now, sir.”

“Colonel, you’ll want to see this,” Vasyl said.  Heekin turned around and swore; there were several women with him, each of them looking more than a little battered.  “We have to take them with us.”

Heekin’s first response was to forbid it, but he knew that they couldn’t leave the women to the tender mercies of the Russians.  He cast his eyes over them, noticing how they had all lost whatever young innocence they had possessed; Russian troops were a byword for atrocities in Eastern Europe.  The women had once had lives and hopes, from the blonde-haired beauty to the dark-haired girl with the broken nose; the Russians had taken those from them without a second thought.

“Very well,” he said, as a new noise echoed over the trees.  He looked up and swore; a flight of Russian helicopters could be seen in the distance.  “Get them to the camp, now!  We’ll handle the rest of this and follow you.”

Royce had moved the tanker onto the middle of the bridge.  He was now splashing petrol around everywhere, trying to cover the entire bridge, while two more of Heekin’s men were fixing what little explosives they had around the bridge.  Heekin shouted a warning as the Russian aircraft drew closer; Royce glanced up, swore, and ran for his life, somehow avoiding slipping in the fuel.  The other two men followed him, their faces pale; they knew what could happen if the Russians hit the bridge with them on it.

“Come on, you bastards,” Heekin breathed.  “We have a surprise for you…”

The lead helicopter swooped down…then jerked up as the first Irish Stinger missile rose to strike it, sending it smashing to the ground in a ball of fire.  The others rose rapidly, firing flares to distract any other Stingers, while launching a hail of rockets towards the village.  Heekin crawled as fast as he could, even as a second helicopter exploded; the third scored a direct hit on the Stinger position and killed three of his men.  He silently cursed the bureaucrats at EUROFOR HQ; how had they intended him to fight a war with so little actual war material?  Had they been dumb enough to actually trust the Russian promises of peace and harmony evermore?

Royce’s face was a study in schoolboy delight.  “Sir, should I hit the detonator?”

“Give it a moment,” Heekin ordered, without thought.  The Russians were reluctant to expose their remaining helicopter to ground fire, but the truth was that he had nothing left to shoot at them with, so…as soon as the Russians figured that out, they would come down and lay waste to his people.  Standard Russian doctrine called for a counterattack as soon as possible, which meant that they would be attempting to launch one from Kiev, but it would take them time to get one moving.  He swore as more Russian helicopters appeared; big transport helicopters.  “No, detonate it now.”

Royce pushed a button on his remote.  There was a heart-stopping pause…and then there was a mighty explosion, which billowed rapidly into oily flames.  The Russians would attempt to save the bridge, if they could, but between the explosions and the fire, it was hard to imagine them actually managing to repair any of the bridge without a major struggle.  If nothing else, they’d certainly messed up the reinforcing plans for Europe…

Joy, he thought, as they slipped away under the cover of the smoke.  We might actually have cost them a few hours in moving their vehicles around the country.

The Russians weren’t in the mood to give up, he realised, as they slipped away into the undergrowth.  Dozens of helicopters and soldiers hunted for them, trying to find them in the Ukrainian countryside; he kept his head low and muttered commands as they slipped further and further away from civilisation.  He had thought, several times, that they had been caught, but the Russians had only fired at an animal, or something else.  The Ukraine was a large place; he dared to hope that they would run out of resources, or perhaps calm down a little…

“We might have to move the camp,” Vasyl said, as they met up again at the base camp.  Night was falling and the Russians had clearly given up for the night, but he was confident that they would be watching for any signs of weakness.  They didn’t dare light a fire; he was more grateful than he had ever been for the self-heating elements in their MRE packs.  They might taste as if someone had eaten them and then thrown them up again, but they didn’t need to be cooked.  “Still, it was worth it, sir.”

Heekin thought about the twelve Irishmen who had come so far to die.  “Yeah,” he said.  He looked over at the women; one of them was eyeing him as if he were a real hero, rather than just someone caught up in the middle of a war.  They had been saved…and perhaps some good had come out of it, after all.  “I guess it was worth it; we’ve slowed them up by a day or two.”

Chapter Twelve: All Quiet on the Western Front

European Lines, Germany

“That’s the 10th Spanish Mechanized Infantry Brigade,” General Florette Rolande informed General Trautman, as they sat together in the command bunker.  Trautman’s mind was partly elsewhere, but he listened as she outlined the forces that were arriving from Spain.  “That brings us up to almost three hundred thousand soldiers on the front line.”

Trautman nodded grimly.  The Spanish had been having their own problems in the south of Europe, not least because of Russian missile attacks, but they had finally been able to forward most of their 1st Land Force Command units to the front.  He had half-expected the Spanish to try, like the Czechs, to remain out of the fighting, but the Spanish had clearly realised that the Russians had to be stopped as far from their territory as possible.  The Russians simply lacked the capability to actually mount a major landing anywhere along the soft underbelly of the European coastline, but there was a lot of Paranoia spreading as chaos leaked across Africa.

The Islamic government in Algeria hadn’t recognised that it had been cheated by the Pact, assuming that the Pact had made them any promises.  Intelligence wasn’t sure, but it seemed as if mutual dislike of Europe, particularly France, had played a role in their calculations; the Algerians had been willing to risk whatever they had built in launching missile attacks against France and threatening an invasion.  That, at least, was a fantasy; it would only have worked if the Russians had managed to clear the European navies…and they had failed to accomplish that.  Even so, the Algerians were tying up French and Spanish resources…and there were rumours that Libya and Egypt were tilting towards the Pact.  Would they attempt to join themselves?

“Good,” he said, pulling his attention back to Florette.  The Frenchwoman had once been a supply officer, now she was the senior logistics officer for EUROFOR, a position she had attained through what was becoming the standard method; everyone higher up being killed by Russian attacks.  She’d managed to hold the post through sheer competence; she might never have made a front-line commander, but she was an excellent logistics officer.  “And our supplies?”

“We’re getting much more ammunition and smaller weapons now,” she said.  Trautman allowed himself a moment of relief; the Russians had hit several supply bases in Germany, one so hard that American satellites designed to watch for nuclear detonations had sounded the alarm.  “Fortunately, smaller weapons are easy to produce and the gearing up is actually showing some results.”

Trautman smiled grimly.  If nothing else, the fighting had had a serious impact on procurement; there was no longer any time to fight over who got to produce what, or whose weapons were used.  He had nominated a standard infantry assault rifle for soldiers and everyone was producing it now, along with antitank weapons and other force multipliers.  The Russians had far more tanks than the combined force possessed; the Europeans knew that their only hope was a defence in depth that would wear down the Russians, but they also knew that they didn’t have the numbers to make the defence work for a while…

He scowled.  There had been a time when Germany had deployed millions of soldiers.  That time had been before the Second World War had ended…and compulsory service had been replaced by semi-optional public service.  Many young men preferred working in old folk’s homes or homeless shelters to the army, not least because the army wasn’t a high-class occupation in Germany now…or at least it hadn’t been, before the war.  Now…they had plenty of conscripts, doing basic training as fast as they could, but it would be months before they were ready to take up arms properly.  Perhaps by then they would have some weapons to give them.

His scowl darkened.  Modern warfare just got more and more complicated.  Everything just took longer, from building weapons to building up supply lines…and entire armies.  Gone were the days when an officer could get give someone a gun and send him to the front lines, now most soldiers had to be graduates with multiple degrees to actually use some of their weapons.  The newer units might make a difference, but only if they were trained…and that was taking up too much time.  The Russians weren’t helping either; one missile attack on a temporary training ground had killed hundreds of conscripts.

Florette leaned forward.  “Sir?”

“Nothing,” Trautman said.  He lit a cigarette absently; the rule that smoking was prohibited in EUROFOR had been forgotten about in the wake of actual fighting breaking out.  “Carry on.”

“We have re-established much of the logistics chain that provides us with arms and supplies,” Florette continued.  “We’ve pressed into service hundreds of trucks and cars, many of them still operated by their owners, and are using them to move weapons and equipment up to the lines.  The emergency call for medical staff has had a large response, so we will have quite a capable rear area support structure, while construction workers are building bunkers and barracks for the soldiers.”

Trautman studied the map thoughtfully.  No one had ever anticipated such a large army, let alone such a large multinational force, and some of the problems had been utterly unexpected.  The Danish force, for example, was used to mixed showers; most of the other armies that had female personnel tended to try to keep them apart in what they called ‘vulnerable situations.’  There were Muslim soldiers, who had special dietary requirements, and vegetarian soldiers, and…it was a nightmare, and he had to admit that part of him loved every last moment of it.  If it wasn’t for the looming enemy force to the east, he would have quite enjoyed himself.

She ran through the rest of her briefing; Trautman listened and occasionally made an intelligent comment.  EUROFOR was as strong as it was going to get for a few months, with some older tanks and reserve forces coming online to replace their early losses.  There had been a series of security alerts in the rear area, which suggested that there were Russian commandos wandering around in the rear; Trautman had to hand to the Russians.  They had taken the entire concept and run with it to the extreme…

He remembered the nightmarish days when the Russians had launched their steamroller through Poland.  Perhaps the war wasn’t such a good thing after all; he had been nearly killed by Russian commandos, while hundreds of other targets had just been…massacred by hundreds of deadly fire fights in the shadows.  Desperate struggles had raged right across Europe, the fate of the entire continent depending on how quickly European security forces could react…and they had, barely, survived.  The Russians would use their tactic again and again, now they had seen how good it was; even if they didn’t, it forced him to cover hundreds of targets behind the lines.  Resources – infantrymen, Special Forces – that he desperately needed were being wasted, guarding targets behind the lines instead of running amuck in the Russian-occupied regions.

“Thank you,” he said, as Florette finished.  He wasn’t keen on having any of his senior officers remaining too long in the bunker; he would have prepared to command the coming battle – and he was sure that it was coming – from a hole in the ground.  The Russians were almost certain to know, through their mystery spy, where he was…and where the other command posts were; all of them would be Russian targets.  “Is there any section that requires a General to kick ass and take names?”

“Not really,” Florette assured him.  “There are some problems with integrating the French and Spanish forces together as the units never trained together, so…”  She shrugged.  “Both of the commanders are good men, however, and they think that they’ll have all of the kinks worked out pretty soon.”

Trautman hoped that she was right.  Different units sometimes had problems working together, even if they came from the same counties; the problems were multiplied when different nations were involved.  It didn’t help that each nation’s junior officers often had firm convictions about what their allies were like, from the claim that the Americans were cowboys to the belief that the French surrendered at the first shot.  There was little truth in any of the stereotypes, but they all had to be worked out before the Russians came over and hit them.

“Good,” he said.  “I’ll inspect a unit later, until then…”

She left his office.  Trautman sat back and took a breath for a moment, then picked up his terminal and accessed the secure files.  He had been sent an update from the Chancellor on the peace talks in Geneva…one that had been unpleasant reading.  There was an attempt at an upbeat note, but Trautman could read between the lines; the Pact was proving more than a little megalomaniac in its designs.  He could see why they would aim for greater security for themselves, but other demands were just calculated to get under America's skin, which meant that the peace offer would be likely to be rejected.  

He contemplated it while he drank his coffee.  Wars of aggression and war crimes tended to be defined by the right side, which tended to be the one that actually won.  Trautman didn’t know if there was any objective basis for defining the Bombing of Dresden as a war crime, but if the Axis had won the Second World War, Bomber Harris and his men would have been treated as war criminals.  There were plenty of examples of aggressors getting away with their aggression, but all of them depended upon the victims either being defeated or being willing to admit that they were defeated.  If the Pact wasn’t going to budge, and the NATO alliance wasn’t going to budge, then the war would hinge on one side defeating the other.  Trautman knew that there was no real intention – yet – of NATO launching an attack, ergo the Russians would launch their own attack as soon as possible…

And they were building up.  The once all-seeing network of spy satellites had been badly weakened by the attacks that both sides had launched upon the other’s orbital installations, but there was enough evidence that the Pact was reinforcing to the fullest possible extent.  Russian pilots had been joined by Chinese and even a few Indian pilots, preparing for launching a new attack, while newer units had come out of Russia.  Worst of all, the Russians were launching major anti-partisan attacks against the Polish partisans in their rear lines, clearing the pathway for their latest advance.  Their logistics network was growing even more powerful…and Trautman knew that there was nothing that he could do to stop it.

He lifted his phone and tapped in a number.  “Get me a direct link to the Chancellor,” he ordered.  He might not be able to convince the Chancellor to lift the ban on air raids into enemy-held territory, but it was his duty to try.  “I need to talk to him as soon as possible.”

There was a pause.  “Yes, sir,” the officer said.  “I’ll put you through at once.”

***
“So there we were,” the driver said, “charging right at this frigging helicopter from the days of Stalin, if not the Tsar, and that madman says…go charge at it, ya fucking bastard!”

He laughed, drunkenly.  “And do you know what we did?”  He asked, waving his finger under the barmaid’s nose.  “We charged at the frigging helicopter and smashed right through it in a massive ball of fire and do you know what happened?  We melted our paint!  That’s it!  We took a million-ton Eurotank and smashed right though a ball of fire…”

“I think you’ve definitely had enough to drink,” Captain Guntar Markus said, as his driver started to sway on his feet.  The fact that he was still standing in the bar was impressive, but the barmaid’s father was starting to take note; she couldn’t be much older than sixteen and beautiful enough to attract plenty of unwanted attention from the thousands of soldiers billeted in the town.

“Ah, fuck off,” the driver said, and fell towards the ground.  He would have a whale of a headache tomorrow, Markus was certain; for someone who knew everything about the Eurotank, he had certainly exaggerated for the benefit of the barmaid.  No one in their right mind would build a million-ton tank.  “Am fine, Captain, I…”

He passed out.  “I'm sorry about him,” Markus said, talking directly to the barmaid.  Her eyes had lit on the Berlin Cross he wore and refused to leave them; Markus had a sudden hint of how women felt when men refused to look above their neckline.  She was blonde and very attractive, but there were military policemen everywhere, protecting someone.  No one was quite sure whom.  “Take him back to the barracks, understand?”

The military police officers looked at him, and then looked at the Berlin Cross both men wore, and carefully picked the driver up.  The Berlin Cross had been issued to everyone who had taken back in the liberation of Berlin; the driver, before he had collapsed, had called it the key to every locked pair of legs in Germany.  The beer garden might have had plenty of younger women in it, assisting the male soldiers, who were enjoying being the centre of attention for once.  If nothing else, it was great for recruitment…and a serious headache for the military authorities.

The barmaid smiled at him enchantingly.  “Was it really like he was saying?”

Markus considered, and then decided that she deserved a honest answer.  “It was madness,” he said.  “We charged forward and smashed right through the Russians and yes, we did charge one of their bloody helicopters and smash it.  You should have heard the complaints we got about melting the paint; a hundred Eurotanks and Abrams lost in the fighting, and what do they complain about?  A new paint job for the tankers!”

“And you were there,” she said.  “You can’t believe what it was like here; one day, I’m just going to college, the next, we’re in the middle of a war and thousands of people are just coming through and we get robbed and I almost get…”

Her voice broke off.  Markus could imagine it; there had been chaos in the rear of the German lines.  The sunny bar and beer garden would have been a prime target for looters in the wake of the chaos; it had beer, money and some pliant female flesh.  What more could they ask to get?  The bar’s owner was lucky that the military had more or less taken it over; the army was paying for the beer and the soldiers were having free drinks, to a given value of free.  He didn’t blame some of the soldiers for overdoing it; they had been in a profession that had been short on public recognition a year before, and then had suddenly been pushed right to the top.

He smiled down at her.  Long-haired boys were out, soldiers were in…and the soldiers couldn’t be happier.  “Don’t worry about it,” he said, as reassuringly as he could.  “The lines not going to break.”

“There hasn’t been an air raid for weeks,” she said.  It dawned on him suddenly that he didn’t even know her name.  It would be something nice, he was sure, perhaps something traditional; Brunnhilde, perhaps, or Gudrun.  A name suitable for her, a maid in a time of war.  “There’s a rumour going on that there’s a truce, but no one wants to risk losing it by discussing it openly.”

Markus tapped his pager.  “Not that I know about,” he said.  “Only a few soldiers have been given leave to come here, and we can be summoned back at any time.”  He paused.  “What’s your name?”

She laughed, like the tinkling of a bell.  “Anneliese,” she said.  She was suddenly serious.  “What’s yours?”

“Günter,” Markus said.  For some reason, he didn’t want to push her too far; it dawned on him that there was something worthwhile under her smile.  “Can I give you my email address?”

“Come with me,” she said suddenly, and pulled him with her, away from the bar and out into a private garden.  It was an amazing place; he could hear the soldiers and the other guests, but no one could see him.  “You’re going back to the front tonight, aren’t you?”

“We all are,” he said, as he took the seat.  She sat down, very close to him.  Her presence was like a drug, he was suddenly very aware of how desirable she was; he couldn’t think clearly with her so close to him.  He wanted her and somehow, he didn’t want to push her.  “What about you?”

“Father was talking about staying here, mother was asking him to send me away to France or Britain,” Anneliese said.  Markus couldn’t understand the grim feeling of loss that had flickered through him, just for a second.  “We have relatives there who would have taken me in, but…I don’t want to leave them here in the path of the storm.”

Kissing her was easy; she tilted her lips up to meet his.  There was a moment’s fumbling, and then they broke apart, just for a second.  He forgot the people, the soldiers and the others who were far too close, all in the joy of meeting her lips.  She felt wonderful; pulling her onto his lap was suddenly the most natural thing in the world.

“No regrets,” she whispered, as he kissed her again.  Her supple body pressed against his, her breasts wonderful to the touch; she gasped, deep in her throat, as his hands went exploring.  “None at all…”

On the ride back to the barracks, Markus couldn’t stop himself from smiling, feeling his pocket again and again.  In one pocket, there was a note of her email address, and in the other, a lock of her golden hair.  He knew, now, what he was fighting for…and who.

Chapter Thirteen: Preparations

Panama Canal Zone, Panama

“That’s one hell of a ship,” Abran said, as he focused his binoculars on the massive American ship passing through the Panama Canal.  “Why don’t we just sink that one in the canal?”

General Shen Sheng, the commander of the small Pact force in Panama, shrugged.  He wasn’t wearing his normal uniform and was uncomfortably aware that that would almost certainly mean that he would be shot as a spy if the Americans caught him, although the civilian outfit would probably spare him unwanted attention if the Americans were peering down from orbit.  He would have preferred to have handled the entire operation with a force of Chinese Special Forces soldiers, but that would have cost the Pact the all-important political cover they needed.  He hated working with local forces.

Abran pushed him.  “We could just sink that ship when it reached the narrowest point in the canal,” he said.  “If we do that with one of the heavy weapons you provided, the Americans won’t want to come here and push us around again.”

Shen kept his face blank.  It was one of the odder points about the Americans that they created enemies on one hand…and on the other weren’t prepared to do what was necessary to ensure that those enemies weren’t ever in a position to harm them.  The contrast between Panama, which suffered from American benign neglect, and Vietnam was astonishing; the Pact might have allowed the outside world to believe that Vietnam was independent, but everyone on the ground knew the truth…as did the Panama populations.  Panama existed as a subordinate to the United States; it had no independent existence that the United States had to accept.

And they hated it.  The fruits of subversion from the south had found easy targets in Panama, where a rising rate of unemployment and increasing wealth from the Canal made it easier to find allies.  The Venezuelan position of eternal opposition to the United States had made it easier for the underground to find a home; the United States, from time to time, had been forced to threaten Venezuela to prevent them from sending more support to the growing underground.  A top-heavy government, a culture that was more corrupt than anything Shen had ever seen in his life…everything had contributed to a growing underground storm.  The Venezuelans had given it support and a direction; they had given it something that it had desperately needed to become effective.

A plan.

“Yes, we could,” Shen agreed, reminding himself of why he had to remain polite to the native.  The Pact couldn’t afford open involvement in Panama, even though the Americans had been foolish enough to leave it practically undefended; the Americans wouldn’t buy, not even for a moment, a Chinese force coming to liberate Panama from its government.  There were plenty of useful fools in America, but many of them were keeping their heads down after Taiwan.  “Of course, if we do that, we lose the chance to actually deal a body-blow to the Americans as well, don’t we?”

He smiled.  “The problem is that the Americans can push you out whenever they like,” he continued.  “You must know that even with the weapons we have given you, and the heavy training, you have problems in holding the line against a regular army…”

“Our friends in the south have promised support,” Abran protested.  “We could just close the Canal now…”

“And then the Americans would demand that they be allowed to move their people in to help you, which would make our little plan impossible,” Shen said.  He smiled, as warmly as he could, even in the warm sun.  “You don’t want the Americans providing security, but the hired police…”

Abran’s face darkened.  The Panama Government had refused – some said at American pressure – to rebuild the Panama defence force, which had done a surprisingly good job at fighting the American units that had invaded the country during their invasion.  Instead, they had declined the presence of additional American troops – it would have triggered up an uprising right across the country – and hired soldiers, all of whom were loyal to whoever was paying them.  It was something fiercely resented among the more patriotic sections of Panama, including veterans of the old PDF.  They had been more than willing to join the movement.

“The Americans are moving one of their…special convoys through the Canal in a week,” Shen continued.  The Canal workers were also fiercely nationalistic, not least because the Americans tended to treat them like barely competent idiots.  Shen had seen Latin American pilot trainees who barely had the intelligence to brush their teeth, but the Canal workers, by and large, were intelligent workers.  They provided more intelligence than anyone had had a right to expect.  “When that convoy reaches here” – he nodded towards the ship that was slowly making its way through the Canal – “we will attack.”

Abran looked doubtful.  “And what happens if they somehow get out of the trap?”

“How can they?”  Shen asked.  “If we are lucky, we will have them in the first moments, when we detonate the mines in the Canal, but even if we don’t, we will have support from fighter jets and our own assault force.  The city will be in chaos and we will be securing all of the targets we need to secure, even while the hired guns attempt to break out of the traps and Venezuelan soldiers arrive to complete the victory.  If worst comes to worst, the Americans will be wiped out by the Venezuelan soldiers.”

“We should be doing it ourselves,” Abran said.  “Is there no way that we can handle that?”

“Not unless you want to lose hundreds of your fighters,” Shen said.  They watched in silence as the ship headed out towards the sea.  “Your choice.”

He smiled at the interplay of thoughts.  They had moved in plenty of weapons, many of them using American arms smugglers who had been running weapons though Panama since before the American invasion.  Panama might be one of the world’s foremost shipping centres, but it was also the hub of the illegal world trade, including drugs, guns and pieces of illegal technology.  China, India and Russia had all had intelligence networks within the little state, watching the Americans and watching what the various undergrounds were planning.  The Americans wouldn’t be slow to react when Panama was attacked; the only question was what they could do in a hurry.

And there were other reasons to attempt to overrun the American-dominated state now, he knew; some of them were more important than he had guessed, back when he had been given permission to go ahead with the plan.  If the plan succeeded, the Americans would suffer one of their most grievous combat losses since…well, since Taiwan.  They would have to react in some way, perhaps by deploying their Marines into Panama, and they would have other problems doing anything like that, while the real target remained almost defenceless.  In the long run, Panama was expendable; it served only the purpose of distracting the Americans…and weakening them.

“We will proceed with the original plan,” Abran said.  Shen nodded.  “What happens afterwards?”

“You establish a government, you are accepted into the Pact, and your lives become free of American interference,” Shen said.  It was nonsense, but it was exactly the sort of nonsense that Abran and those like him wanted to hear.  If they were lucky, they would end up being dominated by Venezuela, rather than America; no conceivable home-grown force could stand off a determined attacker.  Singapore had thought that way, once; it was now under Pact occupation.  “You get to run the country the way you want to run it.”

He knew what Abran wanted to do…and knew that the teams of Venezuelan Special Forces, scattered through Panama, would do what they could to wipe out as much of the American influence as possible.  He listened with half an ear to Abran’s long list of changes that his group would make, smiling inwardly; revolutionaries should never be allowed anywhere near the leavers of power, normally because they were very bad at making a permanent government.  Still, under the circumstances, it hardly mattered.

After all, they were all expendable…

Santo Domingo Forward Air Base, Venezuela

The glittering shape of the MIG-29 awed Captain Juan Jondre, as it always had whenever he set eyes upon the aircraft.  It might not have been the best aircraft in the world, or even the best that Venezuelan procurers had been able to provide, but he loved it.  It’s sheer power was astonishing to him, a man who had started life as a private helicopter pilot before being co-opted into the air force; he had had the discipline to actually lean how to use the aircraft properly, more than many air force pilots had.  Despite years of effort, only recently had the Venezuelan Air Force become a highly-professional organisation.

Seven hundred pilots had gone to Russia to learn how to fly the aircraft, Jondre among them; only three hundred and seven had proved capable of learning everything the Russians had to teach them.  The President hadn’t wasted his money, after all; they’d been put through endless tests and simulations, often duelling with Russian and Chinese pilots, just to become as proficient as they could become.  They had practiced with the modified Venezuelan AWACS – a modified Jumbo Jet carrying a large radar – and they had practiced every manoeuvre in the book.  When they had returned, they were the elite of the Venezuelan Air Force, with the ironic effect that they were not allowed to undertake some missions.

The Columbian Government was collapsing under a tidal wave of insurgency, with Venezuelan aircraft flying missions in support of the rebels, but Jondre and his men hadn’t been permitted to fly them, not least because of the dangers of losing a MIG-29 on a useless mission.  Instead, they had practiced, and practiced; one thing the Russians had firmly hammered into their heads was that they had to practice until they could almost literally do it in their sleep.  Venezuela’s targeting ranges had echoed daily with the sound of their jets, until they had mastered the art of precision bombing, although the Russian-produced precision weapons had aided their targeting.  They were suited for both aerial combat and tactical strike missions, and they had prepared for anything.

He smiled.  They knew – they had been told – that the Americans had better aircraft.  They had also been told that the Americans were overconfident.  Jondre…could not wait until he found out just how good the Americans were, particularly against his squadron.  It would be an…interesting encounter.  As the whistle blew, summoning him and his mates to the briefing room, he watched two helicopters flying overhead, heading towards Columbia.  He wished that he were flying with them.

The Russians had done their best to knock the culture of machismo out of them; the pilots might have known that they were the best that their country had, but their service was more important than their personal issues; anyone who had been tempted to put himself first had been failed from the program long before he became a possible nuisance.  The pilots were all neatly dressed, with simple moustaches; most of them were smoking cheap cigarettes from the dealers nearby.  Drugs were strictly forbidden on the base; only tobacco was permitted.

“At ease,” the Group Commander said.  He had lost an arm in a midair clash with an enemy aircraft, long ago, and it hadn’t improved his mood any.  Jondre and his fellows knew better than to irritate him.  “You have all been growing restless here, wondering when you and your…special skills would be plunged into the battle for freeing this region of the Americans.  The time is almost upon us.”

He paused, long enough to invite comment, had any of them been so foolish.  Some of them tried to make smart remarks during political indoctrination meetings, but by and large few of them would have risked the commander’s ire.  He wasn’t a safe man to provoke.

“As soon as we finish this meeting, you will be confined to barracks for the next few days,” the Commander continued.  There were some subdued groans; the pilots never lacked for female company and they would find the separation from their latest conquests hard to bear.  They would find new girlfriends soon enough.  “Your contribution to the mission could be decisive.”

He unveiled a display board, showing a map of the region, with targets marked.  Jondre leaned forward to take them in, wishing that they dared use an electronic system, but the truth was that no one was quite certain what the Americans could do with electronic systems.  There were rumours that they had tracked down and killed a prominent terrorist by reading his computer network from kilometres away.  Security was absolute; Jondre knew far too much about the Americans to take chances.

“This is the target,” the Commander said.  Panama was clearly marked on the display.  “There is to be an uprising against American control soon” – the pilots knew that that was shorthand for ‘we’re going to cause an uprising against American control soon’ – “and we may be called upon to offer support to the uprising.  In the event of the Americans attempting to intervene with their aircraft, you will provide air cover and tactical bombing support, once the escorting mission has been completed.  Two heavy units of paratroopers are being prepared for a landing right in the heart of Panama City; your task will be to escort them in to land and then provide air support, understand?”

He didn’t wait for any acknowledgement.  “You all know how dangerous this mission could be,” he warned.  “The Americans have kept the citizens of Panama under their thumbs for far too long, and they will not be willing to surrender that control quickly to anyone, let along the people who have the right to claim it.  The Americans…should have other problems, but if they do come at you, we expect you to fight them like mad bastards.”

There were some chuckles.  “Dismissed,” he snapped.  His face softened, ever so slightly.  “Good luck to you all!”

Jondre stood up to leave with the other pilots.  “Not you, Jondre,” the Commander said.  “We have a particular mission for you.”

Jondre thought quickly; was he being punished for something?  Had the Commander any reason to suspect that Jondre had been sleeping with his daughter, or something?  Had something happened…?

“I understand that you practiced with the antiship missiles the Russians created for the MIG-29,” the Commander said.  “Is that accurate?”

“The modified Krypton missile,” Jondre said.  “Yes, I used it in practice bombing runs.”

“Good,” the Commander said.  There was something in his voice that Jondre really didn’t like.  “We have a very special mission for you, and we don’t expect you to fail, so…”

Camp Pendleton Marine Corps Base, California

The kitchen orderly inspected the massive barracks with his normal disdainful expression.  The Marines who would normally be based within the Camp had been sent elsewhere, to Iceland mainly, leaving the Camp in the hands of the Marine trainees, who were being put through their paces by the drill sergeants.  The Marines were generally very neat and tidy – the sergeants would chew out any Marine who dared to leave his bunk and it’s blankets a millimetre out of place – but there were plenty of places within the camp where the Marines weren’t expected to work.  The orderly worked in the massive kitchens, producing food for the Marines, and it wouldn’t be long before the Marine trainees came back, demanding their food.

He pushed his trolley into the next room and showed no expression as some of the trainees grabbed the food before it could be passed around.  They would be going out on a long forced march afterwards, and hadn’t yet mastered many of the basics of being a Marine, or indeed basic politeness.  They gave the orderly the creeps; they were men like the men who had been shooting at him when he had sneaked across the border, coming to America in search of a better life.  The Marines…just looked at them and saw killers, oppressors, in training; they would never be anything to him, but monsters.  They weren’t men; they were monsters, like the men who had killed his wife and left him for dead.  Like the man who had arranged for him to get the job at the Marine Camp…

A Governor in California had been trying to pick up the illegal vote.  One of his politics had been a major job creation scheme for the illegal immigrants, one that had included some military contracting positions.  The orderly had accepted such a post, even while hating the healthy Marines and their senior officers who passed through the camp.  As he returned to the kitchens, he remembered, again, just how easy it would have been to drop some poison in the food, but his benefactor had had another plan.  It had been easy, piece by patient piece, to move the components for a small bomb into the base, one that he had been assured had more explosive power than the Americans would expect.  Each of the components looked innocent on its own, but placed together…

He’d assembled the device in his locker, preparing the timer as per instructions; it only looked like a personal radio.  The instructions had been clear; put all the components together, then turn on the timer and leave the camp at once.  There would be an hour, he had been told, before the timer would detonate…and that would give him long enough to make his escape.  With shaking hands, he slotted the final two components together, careful now that no one saw him working in the backroom, and activated the timer.

He died before he had a chance to realise that he had been tricked.

Chapter Fourteen: Horrors

Washington DC, USA

The two Secret Service agents burst in almost before the President had a chance to register the explosion outside, far too close to the White House for comfort.  The President had no time to react before they grabbed hold of him and hustled him towards the emergency lift in the White House, racing down the corridor and into the lift.  The lift fell faster than the President had felt it move before, even in drills; he was almost sick as they plunged into the basement of the White House.  The lead agent checked the corridor ahead of them as the lift door opened, then escorted the President forward into the Special Situation Room.

The President caught his breath.  “Agent Michel, what exactly is going on here?”

“A major terrorist strike,” the Secret Service agent said.  Annoyingly, he didn’t even seem to be out of breath, glancing along the corridor as two of the duty staff and an armed soldier ran towards them.  There was a heart-topping pause – the President realised just how close they had all come to a fatal accident – and then everyone carefully lowered their weapons.  “Sir, we had the alert from the warning system and then all hell broke loose.”

“Mr President, Colonel House,” a staffer said, introducing himself.  The President remembered him vaguely from one of the emergency drills, conducted years ago.   He was a short burly man with an impression of knowing exactly what he was doing, something the President needed to see at the moment.  “Won’t you come into the Operations Room?”

The Operations Room had been outfitted as a duplicate control room for the nation; the President had once had it explained to him as an attempt to prevent the country from losing all of its command and control facilities in any attack.  The President was supposed to leave Washington if something happened, but if that was impossible for any reason, the President would go to the bunker and hopefully command the nation from there.  The room itself had dozens of consoles and displays, many of them blinking up red lights.

“We have links established with the Pentagon and NORAD, so direct control from this location is not required,” Colonel House explained.  “A full staff should be on their way through the tunnel system now, but emergency systems have taken direct control of the nation.  A full alert has been automatically sent out to every military and civil authority in the country and many of them are responding.”

The President caught his breath.  “Colonel, not to sound rude, but what in bloody hell is going on?”

Colonel House waved at the displays.  “A series of terrorist attacks have taken place across the country,” he said.  “There have been several strikes in Washington itself, mainly car bombs and one larger bomb, and four airliners have been shot down.”  He glanced down at a panel as it bleeped a warning.  “Make that five airliners, with very heavy civilian death tolls.  There have also been an entire series of warnings, threats and hoaxes, all of which have to be checked out; Mr President, there are reports that there’s a lunatic in Washington with a surface to air missile.”

The President felt his blood run cold.  “Give me a rundown,” he ordered.  “What’s happening now?”

“The first explosion was at Camp Pendleton, California,” Colonel House said.  The President was aware of the sudden stiffening in the Marine standing behind him.  “The explosion took out a large chunk of one of the buildings; fortunately, the Commandant survived and is coordinating rescue efforts.  Several more strikes occurred at other military bases and odder targets, including the Border Patrol headquarters and several State Police offices.  There are parts of Washington in flames, Mr President; several explosions went off in New York’s subway system!”

The President stared down at his hands.  “And the military situation?”

“Quiet,” a new voice said from behind him.  The President turned to see General Armstrong.  “I was in the Pentagon at the time, Mr President; most of the military command system is working perfectly.  So far, there are no signs that the Pact is attempting to move against us to take advantage of our sudden distraction, or indeed anything else.  There have been a handful of reported clashes along the Mexican Border with heavily armed smuggler gangs, but there’s no attempt to actually hit us.  Intelligence isn’t sure, but apart from the Middle East, the Pact seems to be taking a break; the only reported direct clash was a quick brush in Europe between a French patrol and a Russian scouting force.”

He took the seat the President waved him to.  “We have aircraft in the sky escorting down the airliners that we caught in the air, following the 9/11 protocols,” he continued.  “There are no signs that any airliners were actually hijacked, but there have been an entire series of warning calls and hoaxes; all of them have to be checked out and we don’t have the time.  Camp Pendleton is on fire, Mr President; there are a handful of other military bases…”

The President held up a hand.  “How many people have died?”

“There’s no way to know, yet, but the incident response team believes that we might have lost over five thousand lives so far, civilian and military,” Armstrong said grimly.  The President saw the burning rage behind his eyes and shared it in full.  “There are still reports of armed men running around; a sheriff somewhere in Kansas shot one of them down, and the FBI is sending a team to investigate.”

An alarm sounded.  “Cruise missiles,” Colonel House snapped.  He sounded on the verge of panic.  “They’re…they’re coming from here!

The President stared at the display.  He knew enough to know how to read it; the icons for cruise missiles had appeared, their courses originating within the United States and Mexico.  They watched in silence as the missiles screamed towards their targets, the system already trying to quantify them as threats and possible dangers.

“Those aren’t Pact missiles,” General Armstrong commented.  Other officers had entered the Operations Room, taking over the remaining consoles; the President welcomed them, even as he wished for no distractions.  He found it reassuring that people were already responding to the crisis as the hours ticked on, but he wanted to think, to plan.  “They’re…more like commercial designs.”

Minutes passed.  Some of the strange missiles were shot down by TMD systems; others reached their targets and exploded on the ground.  A single missile didn’t explode and a bomb disposal team examined it, reporting that it was a conventional missile made from civilian components, all purchased in America.  Other reports came in from other places in America; armed response teams and civilians armed with private weapons had shot or captured several terrorists.  The President issued orders and waited to hear the results, wondering what would happen next in his term.

“You’re really not going to like this, Mr President,” Bob Greer said.  The Director of Homeland Security looked very pale; it had been his department that had been caught with its pants down.  “We performed an entire series of emergency interrogations of the four captured terrorists, and they all say the same thing…and they’re all…ah…”

“Hispanic,” General Armstrong injected.

“Yes, General,” Greer said.  “They were all Hispanic.”

The President looked up at him sharply.  “Explain,” he said.  “What were they doing here?”

“Two of the captured terrorists were arrested five to seven years ago on charges of trying to illegally cross the border,” Greer said.  “Their DNA was taken then, and they were returned to Mexico, where we assumed that they had either found jobs or vanished into a life of crime.  The other two had temporary resident cards on them; they seemed to be under the impression that the cards would have prevented them from being interrogated, but…anyway, it’s not good news.

“They didn’t know very much, Mr President, but from what they did say, they were members of a radical Hispanic group, the Front for the Liberation of Aztecan, or something like that,” he continued.  “Apparently, they were all recruited within the United States for missions that were intended, and I quote, to force us to accept every Hispanic within the United States as a full citizen…and disenfranchise anyone else in the southern states.”

The President stared at him.  “There’s going to be an absolute riot,” he said.  The possible consequences spread through his mind; the growing unrest about illegal immigration, the rise in anti-immigration groups, the attacks along the border, everything that would lead, inevitably, to race war in the United States.  Muslims had been attacked during the War on Terror; how many Mexicans and other Hispanics would be caught up in the fighting, many of them innocent?

“Yes, Mr President,” Greer said.  He paused.  “My office and the FBI has been reluctant, because of the political implications, to keep close track of the number of radial Hispanics within the United States.  They weren’t considered to pose a problem along the scale of Islamic Fundamentalists, and they…many of them just wanted to be citizens, rather than some make-believe caliphate or other such nonsense.  Many illegal immigrants were actually taking up jobs that…there were highly-placed people with a strong incentive to forget any actual…”

“I don’t want any fucking butt-covering,” the President snapped.  He smiled grimly at their expressions.  “Answer me one simple question; is there any way to prevent this…group, whatever they may fucking think they are doing, from striking again?  Do you have lists of possible suspects, or what?”

“Mr President, the vast majority of the Hispanic community is loyal,” Greer said.  He was sweating slightly under the President’s gaze.  “The problem becomes one of rooting out the bad apples from a group…”

“That is about to be targeted by every nutcase in America,” the President said.  He glanced down at his watch.  “I have to speak to the nation directly, soon; can you give me something useful to work with?”

Greer hesitated.  “We have some tabs on possible radicals and people who were involved with people-smuggling,” he said.  “They’re…they’re not easy to touch, legally…”

“Forget that,” the President said.  “I want to speak to the Governors, and then declare Martial Law over the southern states; I want you, the FBI, and the other police forces to round up as many of those radicals as you can, before something goes wrong, again…”

“We don’t need Martial Law for that, Mr President,” Greer protested.  “We can…”

The President met his eyes.  “How long will it be, I wonder. Before GNN, or CNN, or Fox, or one of the endless internet bloggers works out that the terrorists were illegal immigrants?”

Greer stared at him.  “It could be days…”

“It will be minutes,” the President said.  “At that moment, there will be absolute chaos, with a full-blooded race war in our streets.  I want you to lock down on trouble, hard; understand?”

He looked up at General Armstrong.  “I want the National Guard deployed and ready to soak up trouble,” he said.  “I want the border with Mexico sealed and a force placed on alert for possible incursions into Mexico to destroy any terrorist bases we find outside our borders.  What about security at our bases?”

General Armstrong looked uncomfortable.  “We have an identification on the bomber at Camp Pendleton,” he said.  The President looked at his expression and knew that it would be bad news.  “He was Manual Lopez, a registered semi-legal immigrant, someone who worked in the Camp’s kitchens.  Surveillance systems place him at the centre of the blast; we assume that he was the one who actually triggered the system, using that new mining explosive to destroy a large part of the base.  There were concerns raised about the entire system of offering work permits to some immigrants years ago, but it was politically unacceptable to vet more than a handful of them for service, particularly since they wouldn’t be going anywhere secure.”

The President scowled at him.  It was a known fact that certain federal agencies were allowed to be racist, with the vast number of Chinese spies and operatives within the United States.  Discrimination, officially forbidden and politically dangerous, was still a serious problem…and it was worse when one found it hard to consider how a cleaner or a…well, a kitchen worker could actually pose a danger to the base.  There was a point where political considerations could no longer be allowed to trump security…and he was resolved that that point had been reached.

“Place all of the bases into lockdown,” he ordered.  A quick glance at the display showed a force of Marines transiting the Panama Canal.  “Anyone who is absolutely non-essential, get them out of the bases, including dependents and families.  If anyone makes a fuss, refer them to me.”

“Understood,” Armstrong said.  “Sir, what about retaliation against the Pact?”

The President looked down at the table.  “Is there any proof that the Pact is involved?”

“It can’t be a coincidence,” Armstrong said.  “We tracked down one of the bombers to a Chinese import-export firm in California, somewhere that could actually provide all the support that bombers would need.  Mr President, it is my very strong recommendation that we proceed as soon as possible with Vengeance II.”

“The target of that operation isn’t China,” the President pointed out.  He scowled.  “Do we want to make matters worse?”

“We’re at war,” General Armstrong said.  “I submit to you, Mr President, that if we lose, it doesn’t matter how much worse things become.”

“I see,” the President said.  He noticed his Press Secretary waiting for him.  “Contact the Admiral and tell her to begin the preparations, but not to launch the attack without my permission, understand?”

Armstrong nodded.  The President stood up and followed his Press Secretary into the small broadcasting studio.  It had been designed to allow the President to address the nation in the event of a nuclear war or some other natural disaster that prevented him from leaving Washington, yet another part of the determined effort to keep the nation together, whatever happened.  The President had read some of the more extreme plans and had wondered, at the time, at the paranoia of the planners, even though he now understood their concerns.  From items like hiding state-of-the-art clinics in the country to burying machine tools, the planners had tried to plan for the unthinkable and even the un-plannable.

There were no staff there to help him; his Press Secretary did all of the work of operating the system himself.  Dependents and non-essential personnel were already being evacuated from Washington; the President hoped that they could return as quickly as possible, but he knew better than to order it just for a broadcast.  He hadn’t even had time to consult with Congressmen and their leaders or the state Governors; they would probably complain, later, that they had been shut out of the meeting.  The Governors in the south would have real political problems; the Governor of California, a known pie-in-the-sky left-winger, would end up having to explain how so many Marine trainees died on his watch.

“My Fellow Americans,” the President said.  He was speaking from the heart, not reading from a script; it would sound more natural for his listeners.  “Our country has been attacked, by a small group of terrorists determined to bring down the nation and shatter it completely.”  He paused, long enough for that to sink in.  “There have been dozens of attacks, some of them quite alarming, and so I have declared a state of emergency across the entire continental United States.  I ask each and every one of you not to panic, or to seek revenge against any members of the community; the enemies of our country hope that we will turn on the Hispanic minority and destroy ourselves in a futile ordeal of blood-letting and chaos.”

He’d thought long and hard about admitting that the terrorists – the known terrorists – were Hispanic.  Only the fact that the news would break soon had pushed him into informing the population; he had to attempt to defuse the crisis before it became impossible to defuse.  He saw, now, what the Pact had wanted; they hoped that America would blow itself apart and save them the trouble of actually winning the war.

“The great strength of this nation lies in the melting pot that has created the American people,” he continued.  His rhetoric might be meaningless, but he had to try.  “I commend those Americans, black, brown, white, Chinese, who fought today to prevent the crises from becoming much worse; I ask each and every one of you to forget the desire for revenge and work with me to win the war and ensure that a just and honourable peace comes out of so much pain.  I can promise nothing, but blood, toil, tears and sweat, but at the end of it, America will remain the great nation that she has always been.

“Thank you, and God bless America.”

“Well done, Mr President,” the Press Secretary said.  His face looked almost as sweaty as Greer’s had been; he might have sensed the President’s bad mood.  “Perhaps there won’t be so many riots in the next week.”

The President eyed him.  “Perhaps,” he said.  It wouldn’t be long before all the nuts came out of their hiding places and started using the entire crisis as a way to force forward their own agendas.  It always happened; something happened and then everyone and his dog tried to take advantage of it.  The President, at times, hated politics.  “I think that…”

“Mr President,” General Armstrong shouted.  The president saw the very real alarm on his face and swore inwardly; something really bad had just happened.  “Mr President, all hell has just broken loose in Panama, and…”

The President looked at the display.  “Shit,” he swore.  The developing…situation looked disastrous.  “Now what the hell do we do?”

Chapter Fifteen: Panamanian Chaos

Panama Canal Zone, Panama

“This fucking sucks, man,” Sergeant Major Tolliver protested, half-heartedly.  “Are we not going to stop in at Panama City for some rest and relaxation?”

The men of the 22nd MEU were feeling harassed, not helped by the hot weather as the massive USS Bataan made its way slowly through the Panama Canal.  They had been assigned to fight in Iceland, except the Russians had crumbled too quickly for their unit to become involved in the fighting.  Rear area security, the younger Marines had grumbled, was for the birds; the older hands had privately been grateful that they had had the peace and the time for more extensive training.

“Apparently not,” Captain Churchill said, as the Marines lined up on the deck.  The massive transport ship might have been capable of carrying over four thousand crew and soldiers, but the deck still seemed packed with men.  “The fleshpots of Panama will have to wait for you.”

He smiled at Tolliver’s expression.  Panama had once been one of the crowning glories, as far as the junior ranks were concerned, of American bases.  The women were lovely, the beer was cheap, and there were fewer stern people trying to oversee their behaviour.  Once, an American would go to Panama with his pay check, and come back with nothing, but a hangover and good memories.  There was just nowhere else to compare, but that had been changing recently, with the growth of stronger anti-American movements; he had heard threats that the Panama dockworkers were planning to strike, rather than allow the seven American ships into the canal.

Panama rose up around them as they entered the second part of the canal, passing through the locks, following the pilot ship as it led the Americans down the canal.  The Panamanians insisted on a pilot and a small crew of their people on each ship that passed through the canal now, mainly because – they claimed – of American concerns about drug smugglers.  A cynic might have noticed that American ships tended to be the only ones inspected…and that American ship-owners were raising a stink about it.  Churchill – whose concerns were more basic – found it hard to care.  He was more worried about his men and the coming battle…wherever they were going.  It was easy to believe that the Pentagon had simply forgotten about them…

Colonel Garrett Cothran III appeared and both men stood to attention.  Churchill couldn’t help, but notice that he looked worried, something odd in a Marine who had once, in his glory days, charged a Jihadi encampment with nothing, but an E-Tool.  He had won, as well; the reporters had had a field day, even the ones who were generally opposed to Americans.  He nodded to Tolliver and the Sergeant straightened.

“AT EASE!”  He bellowed.  Silence fell.  “ALL RIGHT MARINES, FALL IN!”  There was a brief scurry as the last few Marines got into their ranks.  “TWENTY SECOND MARINE EXPIDITIONARY FORCE, ATEN-HUT!”

The waves seemed to echo with his voice.  “At ease,” Cothran said.  There was something in his voice that told Churchill that there was bad news coming.  “There has been a series of major terrorist attacks in the United States, one of them targeted on Camp Pendleton.”

A dull angry mummer spread through the ranks until Tolliver bellowed for silence.  Many of the Marines had been based there before the deployment, and some of them had family and other dependents on the base.  Churchill felt the force of the impact, almost worse than a physical blow, and fought for calm.  Whoever did that was going to pay!

“We have been ordered to make all speed through the Canal to San Diego, where we will assist in the recovery effort,” Cothran continued.  His voice was rising; Churchill remembered suddenly that Cothran’s wife lived near Camp Pendleton…and might have been there when the bomb went off.  “Until we reach there, we will engage in heavy-duty training, and then we will be deployed to find the people who did this and smash them flat.  We believe that the Pact of Opposition was behind this; they killed thousands of civilians just to make a fucking statement and we are going to pound their fucking throats in to fucking teach them that they don’t mess with the Marines!”

The marines shouted as one.  “UH RAH!” 

“Semper Fucking Fi!”  Cothran snapped.  “They hit only a few military targets; they destroyed hundreds of civilians, to make a statement!  Now it is our turn to make a statement!  We will be deployed into a region where we will come face to face with the people who did this…and we are going to kill them all!  Company Commanders; take charge of your men.  Dismissed.”

***
General Shen peered down at the American ships as they entered the narrowest point of the Panama Canal.  The shipping lanes had been cleared for the American ships, much to the annoyance of the Panamanian companies who depended on having open access to the Canal, but it wasn’t as if the Americans were going to be there forever, after all, was it?  He grinned, aware that some of his comrades saw a Chinese grin as somehow chilling; they would understand, perhaps, that the thought of actually hurting the Americans was too much to pass up.

The group surrounding him, nearly five hundred armed men, looked confident; Shen knew that part of their confidence came from the fact that they had never faced American militia, let alone the cream of the American armed forces, in an open battle.  The Heffe of the local movement, Giermo Gattaro, had claimed experience fighting with Cuban and Venezuelan forces, but some of his tactical dispositions had needed some…work.  If it hadn’t been politically impossible to have Chinese troops on hand…

“Yes of course we have heard of you,” Gattaro had assured him.  “Your men have told us of your coming with a plan to hurt the Punta Yankees.  How can we help?” 

Shen smiled.  The Panamanian Communist Socialist Resistance Front had thought they had it made when they hoodwinked Carter into giving up American control over the Canal.  Surely the people of Panama would see the wisdom of the Great Fidel, and would join the revolution.  Sadly, for some strange reason, it hadn’t turned out that way.  In spite of support from Cuba, Russia, and China, and then later from Venezuela as well, the Gattaro was unable to convince the fools of the cities that a communist uprising was the only way they could ever truly be free of the bastardo Americanos.

Shen smiled.  One way or another, they would know how well they had planned.

“Now,” he said.  The time was right.  They had to act before the American helicopter gunships saw the men in their hiding positions.  “Send the signal.”

***
The Pilot was a nervous man, made more nervous by the presence of the hired guns on one side, and the American Marines on the other.  The hired guns were supposed to remind ship commanders that Panama was watching, but there was little disguising the fact that they were glorified thugs, while the Marines were clearly killers.  Both groups of armed men fingered their weapons and studied the other, the hired guns attempting to look tough in the face of the confident Marines and failing miserably.

The American Captain didn’t want the Panamanians on his ship and would probably have been surprised to know that the Pilot felt exactly the same way.  The Americans had agreed only after strong pressure and threats of closing the canal to American shipping; they certainly felt no obligation to make the Pilot feel welcome.  American military ships did not, of course, have to suffer inspection, but there were drug smugglers who treated him with more respect…and money.  He had the feeling that if he asked the Captain for a bribe, the Marines would stuff him into a torpedo tube.  If American Marine Transports had torpedo tubes…

The Marines weren’t the reason why the Pilot was nervous, even though the Captain had told him about the terrorist strikes in America, when he’d had to keep his face as blank as he could.  He was nervous because of the briefcase he’d brought with him, one given to him by a man who had offered him enough money to live the rest of his life in luxury on one hand, and threatened to slaughter all of his family on the other hand.  It was harmless, he had been assured, but if he failed to take it onboard the American ship…

For the life of him, the Pilot couldn’t see how the man’s American contact intended to pick up the drugs, for he assumed that they were drugs.  Americans took more drugs than any other country, the Pilot believed, but how could they pull off a drug exchange on the bridge of an American warship?  It was impossible…

The Pilot’s thoughts, and his world, came to a sudden end as the package exploded…and devastated the bridge.  No one survived the blast.

***
Churchill fell to his knees as the ship shuddered around him.  The lights beaming down onto the map table flickered and went out, followed rapidly by the computer displays.  He had barely a moment to meet Tolliver’s eyes…and then the sound of heavy weapons burst through the hull, echoing in his ears.  As one, they grabbed their weapons and sprinted for the deck, shouting at their fellow Marines to get up…just as the ship shook again.  He could hear weapons…and, as he staggered onto the flight deck, he thought that he was looking on a scene from hell.

The ship had had an entire row of helicopters and Harrier jump jets lined up for launch; they were now burning wrecks, with dead bodies strewn around them.  As he watched, one of the orbiting helicopters swooped down on a target…and was smashed out of the sky by a missile launched from somewhere along the canal.  Heavy fire was pouring in towards the ships, some RPG, some heavier than that, with machine guns and rifles and…

He had only a moment to see the speedboat before it rammed the Boxer.  The Marine Transport, the same class as his ship, blew up like a firecracker when the first explosion triggered the weapons and aviation fuel the ship carried.  The shockwave slammed into the Bataan, shaking the ship, and he realised grimly that their position was untenable.  The ship was already burning and the command tower seemed to have been knocked out by an explosion; half of the Marines would be trapped below decks and they were taking fire from all sides.

“Get the terminal working,” he snapped at a Marine.  The communications officer was supposed to have a permanent link to the USMC HQ, as well as other MILNET facilities, at all times.  He thought – hoped – that there would have been a distress signal, but they couldn’t take chances, not when they were so far from any support.  There was a carrier in the Caribbean, he thought, but how long would it take for it to get any support in to help them?  “We need to send out a distress signal!”

Tolliver was already forming up Marines.  They were lucky that there was already issued ammunition, just because of the war; a surprise attack in peacetime would have cost them too much time to arm themselves.  “Sergeant, I want snipers out there, shooting at the enemy,” Churchill directed, trusting Tolliver to put his orders into action.  There was no sign of the Colonel, the ship’s Captain, and they were dead in the water anyway.  “What about the tanks?”

A Marine sniper, the deadliest shot that Churchill had met, slipped past him with his sniper rifle.  “Not a chance, sir, unless we somehow manage to get the ship on land and the doors opened,” Tolliver snapped.  He fired twice at a target that had presented itself; there was a curious amateurishness about the attack that puzzled Churchill, even as he grappled with the problem of repulsing it.  There were no longer any helicopters and there might be more suicide speedboats out there.  “There’s fires down there and everything!”

Churchill muttered a curse.  It was sheer luck that they hadn’t lost the fuel storage…or else they would have all been blown to Kingdom Come.  The enemy were raking the deck with bullets, some of them coming alarmingly close to his position, and he was starting to get very worried; they still hadn’t heard about any help.  Marine Air was very capable, but the carrier was miles away, even assuming that it knew to send help.

He tapped his tactical radio, relieved that it was still working.  “Sergeant Vinson, please let me hear you,” he said, hoping that the crusty old sergeant had survived.  “Sergeant?”

““Semper Fucking Fi, sir,” Vinson said.  “We’re below decks, issuing the heavier weapons.”

“Noted,” Churchill said.  “I need a team to get onto the shore and flush the weapons away before they can do us some real damage.”

A speedboat, appearing out of nowhere, raced towards the Bataan.  The sniper shot the pilot and moments later it exploded, just before a hail of bullets raked the sniper’s position.  Churchill realised that the sniper had been killed…and that the enemy were pressing their attack closer, and closer, and…

“Fix grenades,” Tolliver shouted.  “FIRE!”

A line of explosions marched across the side of the canal.  “I got a link through to the carrier, sir,” the communications officer said.  He was young, really just a kid, but he was holding himself together really well.  Churchill made a mental note to see that he got a medal afterwards, if there was an afterwards.  “The carrier is launching aircraft, but there are reports that Panama City is burning and that Venezuela has launched an invasion and a series of attacks on other territories and…”

“In other words, there’s no help coming,” Churchill said.  It was possible that the carrier’s aircraft could just punch their way through to support the Marines – he wouldn’t bet on the aircraft from Latin America facing the latest Joint Strike Fighters – but many of the ground support aircraft would be needed to help evacuate Americans from Panama City.  “Vinson, I really think we have to get them clear of the banks before they hit something vital.”

***
The sight of the American destroyer sinking, a massive gaping wound in its hull, made Shen smile, even as the Marines started attempting to fight back.  He was actually impressed; thousands of Marines would have died when some of their ships exploded, but the others were still trying to fight, even to the point of launching attacks on the banks.  His snipers were working them over, but if they got one of their deck guns working, everything would suddenly become a lot more difficult.

“Get the heavy guns moving, now,” he snapped.  He hadn’t wanted to risk exposing them because of the dangers of the American aircraft or satellites noticing them, but there was no longer any choice.  The Liberator weapons, created by China and Russia for ‘wars of national liberation,’ were medium-ranged artillery cannons, armed with a mixture of high explosive and armour-penetrating rounds.  The technology was out of the last century, with only a few modifications; even a monkey could be trained to use it. The Russians had invented the AK-47, he’d been told, for tribesmen; the Liberator was the Chinese addition to their arsenal.

The first explosions echoed as the guns started to shell the trapped ships.  He’d run out of suicide speedboats, but one way or the other, the Canal was firmly blocked.  He saw massive geysers of water appear where the shells had crashed and smiled; the Panama fighters would soon find the range and then the American ships would be sunk.  The Marines were launching a counterattack now, with some of their men charging right up the side of the Canal, but it was too late; they were doomed.

They just didn’t know it yet.

***
“We’re fucked,” Churchill breathed, as the first blast of water gusted into the air.  There was no question about its source; only a shell could make something like that, which meant that the enemy was trying to bombard them into submission.  The shells were coming down closer now, aiming for the crippled destroyer; it was only a matter of moments until they hit something vital.

“We got a deck gun working,” someone shouted.  Churchill didn’t have to shout orders; the crew turned the gun on their tormentors, but he knew that it was too late.  A shell struck the side of the ship and detonated, sending him to the deck as the ship heeled around him, subsiding in the water.  “Sir…”

An explosion detonated, stunningly close, as one of their sister ships exploded.  “All hands, abandon ship,” Churchill shouted.  They might have a chance to make it into the countryside and escape the trap, if they moved quickly; they might just be able to get lost in the jungle, somewhere.  “All hands…”

An armour-piecing shell punched through the deck and detonated in the fuel supply.  There were no survivors.

***
“Don’t worry about taking prisoners,” Shen ordered, as the last of the American ships exploded.  The fireball had awed even him; it was impossible not to have a sense of the sheer power they had unleashed, even if it was puny compared to a nuclear warhead.  “Just finish the job.”

He glanced in the direction of Panama City as the fighters completed the task of annihilating their foes.  The Marines had fought well, very well, but they couldn’t get out of the trap he’d worked hard to put them in.  Now that the fighting was dying down, he could hear more fighting from the direction of the city…and he knew that that meant that all hell was breaking loose in Panama.

He smiled, again.  It had only just begun…and already the fate of the world was in his hands.  The opposition would never know what had hit it.

Chapter Sixteen: Panama City In Flames

Panama City, Panama

“This is Avenge Command,” the voice crackled in Captain Juan Jondre’s ear.  “You are cleared to proceed with the secondary mission, understand?”

“Understood,” Jondre said, as the MIG-29 banked high over Panama.  “I’m going in now…”

From so high in the sky, Panama looked green and beautiful, until he flew closer.  Flames and smoke could be seen rising from Panama City, where he knew that some bombers had already concentrated their attentions.  The spontaneous carefully planned uprising, as his commander had explained it to him, had clearly been a success, but there was one target that was beyond the reach of the insurgents.  It was a slap in the face to all of Latin America, and Jondre would be the one who handled it, something that no other pilot could claim.

The Panamanian Government, as everyone knew and the revolutionary propaganda kept harping on, had hired thousands of soldiers to defend themselves from outside threats.  Everyone knew that that really meant their own people, and perhaps FARC and other underground fighters from the remainder of Latin America.  As the rich got richer, and the poor got poorer, the rich were prepared to spend more on their own protection…mainly from their own people.  Jondre didn’t understand it; Panama had a vast influx of money, so they didn’t need to worry about a revolution…if they just treated people differently and stopped sucking up to the Americans.  It was a question of pride; Panama had none after years of servitude to the Americans.

He swooped low over the city, keeping a careful eye on his threat receiver.  There were teams down below with SAM launchers and worse; they might attempt to engage his aircraft, mistaking it for an American aircraft.  The Americans should have been carefully forced to commit themselves elsewhere, with so many problems that they would have real problems deciding which one to commit themselves to handling first, but he was aware that Panama would be high on their list.  The base in Cuba might be more important to them, but it wouldn’t take them long to either relieve it or realise that it was hopeless and abandon it, depending.

“Target acquired,” he said.  They had planned to keep radio silence, but he had to warn the people on the ground.  “Commencing attack run.”

The hired soldiers had built themselves a complex in 2017, something that had impressed experts back home; it was a massive blocky compound with enough defences to make it hard for anyone to attack, unless they had tanks and heavy guns…and the handful of heavy guns that the revolutionary forces possessed had had to be committed elsewhere.  He could see smoke rising from it now; the clear fields of fire that the building possessed allowed the inhabitants to lay down fire with awesome accuracy.  They would have the latest in American weapons; he was confident, as many people in Panama were, that the hired guns were merely American soldiers in disguise.  

He shrugged.  That didn’t matter.  All that mattered was that they had to be hit, and hit hard…and that they would be hit.

The speed of the flight brought the building much closer, faster than he would have believed, years ago.  Even experienced pilots could be caught out by surprise by the closing speed; the laser designator had picked up the building and targeted the twin missiles with ease.  He checked his radars one final time, now that an AWACS had entered the fray, and tapped the firing button.  The aircraft jerked as the missiles fell from the airframe before boosting towards their target and he banked away, spinning over the city to avoid any groundfire, if any had been aimed at him.  His threat receiver bleeped a warning, but whatever was taking aim at him never fired; the missiles struck the building with a thunderous explosion.

He smiled as the fighters, carefully positioned to prevent the hired soldiers from fleeing, moved in for the kill.  To all intents and purposes, the foreign soldiers were out of the fight.

“Mission accomplished,” he said, into his radio.  He still had two air-to-air missiles left; he wasn’t surprised to be given a patrol path escorting in transports from Venezuela.  There was still the danger that the Americans would intervene.  “The target has been destroyed.”

***
He issued his commands as his forces formed up around him; two thousand of the most capable soldiers that Venezuela had developed, targeted directly on the Presidential Palace of Panama.  The mission was too important to be left to insurgents, no matter how determined they were; Venezuela believed that the critical matter was to secure control over the country first and leave the discussions over who held political control in the future to later.

Colonel Hector Montenegro snapped out his final commands as the area around the Palace was secured.  The Palace was massive, and most of it was devoted to the current leader of Panama, someone who propaganda claimed was fatter than was physically possible.  His men had all been firmly indoctrinated; they were to take the Palace as fast as possible, no matter who got in the way, or why.  The important matter was to secure Presidente de la Republica Guillermo Alcazar as quickly as possible, before the President managed to impersonate his hero Tintin and try something stupid.

He nodded to one of his men, who held a loudspeaker.  “ATTENTION,” he bellowed, loudly enough to force Montenegro to cover his ears.  “ATTENTION; SURRENDER THE PRESIDENT AND YOU WILL NOT BE HARMED!  YOU HAVE ONE MINUTE TO DECIDE!”

Montenegro frowned.  There was no hope of any relief for the Palace, even if the report of the successful strike against the barracks had been the air force claiming a success it hadn’t managed to achieve.  His men had deployed to prevent any relief, even if the command and control still existed to organise any counterattack; he would not have offered money on any one of the hired soldiers being willing to take on such odds.  The minute ticked down and there was no reply; were they somehow expecting the Americans to help them in time?

Montenegro smirked.  The Americans had other problems.  Montenegro was one of the handful of people who knew the true scope of the operation…and the need for speed.  By the time the Americans could react, his people would be dug in and the canal would be heavily mined, preventing them from taking quick action against any major target.  Air strikes…what were they?  The Americans would have to commit ground forces against his people…and that would cost them.

”No reply, sir,” his subordinate said.  “They’re sending out general orders for any unit to come and help them, but no one is replying.”

“What a pity,” Montenegro said.  He had some Panama blood in him; he had also been appointed Governor of the new province, assuming that he managed to capture it.  He had given the President five minutes…and that wasn't anything like enough time.  “GO!”

His men advanced in formation, firing grenades into the windows, attacking on all fronts simultaneously.  Explosions littered the building as the small grenades killed men waiting in ambush, other men attempted to fight back against the commandos and killing a handful before they were killed themselves.  The household staff, from the cooks and the domestic staff to the President’s personal whores, were swiftly caught and secured…and then it was over.

“Where is he?”  Montenegro demanded.  “Where’s the President?”

“We caught him,” his aide said, checking his radio.  “He was dressed as a woman, trying to sneak away.”

Montenegro strode off towards the Palace without a second thought.  The Palace was tackier than he had expected, with gold and gilt everywhere, and paintings that could have fed a thousand families for their lives if they had been sold openly.  The President himself wasn’t quite as fat as they had been led to expect, but the French Maid’s outfit he wore looked…disgusting on his build.  Montenegro’s men had been sniggering at him; it was all that Montenegro could do to avoid breaking into giggles himself.  He had to look firm for his men, and yet…

“You are my prisoner,” he said, shortly.  “The remainder of your life depends on how you follow my orders, starting with a radio broadcast admitting your sins and demanding the assistance of your brothers in the south to save Panama from itself.  If you make the broadcast, and perhaps one or two other minor services, your life will be spared.”

The President tried to meet his eyes.  “And if I don’t?”

Montenegro unholstered his pistol and shoved it in the President’s face.  “Does this answer your question?”

“Yes,” the President said.  “I’ll do whatever you want, just don’t kill me.”

Montenegro turned to one of his men.  “Secure the building and any equipment you find here,” he ordered.  “Take the President to a cell and have him under constant guard, while we finish up here.  Get the broadcast equipment into the State Room; the President can make his address from there.”

“Yes, sir,” his aide said.  His voice became a sneer.  “Come along, Miss President.”

Montenegro laughed.

***
“My god,” Kyle Short breathed, as he stared down at Panama City from his apartment.  “It’s really happening!”

He looked down at the terminal in his hand, recording what he could for GNN, even as the girl in his bed called for him to come back.  She has been a one-night stand as far as Short was concerned; Panama’s rising level of unemployment meant that there were more and more girls willing to spend time with young men with money.  He could barely remember her name; it had been something Native American, rather than Mexican, and she was gorgeous.  She wasn't worth losing the scoop of a lifetime, however; GNN would throw him out on his arse if he missed it because of his desires.

Parts of the city were burning, and he could see armed men on the streets, hunting down policemen and foreigners.  For the first time, it occurred to him that his life might be in danger; if the young men below had declared war on foreigners, they wouldn’t hesitate to include him as well in their lists.  The local television and radio stations were ordering everyone to stay in their homes and remain off the streets, but Short could see evidence of rioting and looting right across the city.  An aircraft skimmed by, barely above the city, and he realised in a moment of pure horror that it was a fighter jet.  He couldn’t identify the type – he had never claimed to be a military expert – but it’s presence showed that first reports were accurate; someone was invading Panama.

The girl came up behind him.  She was naked and unashamed, but he could see real terror in her eyes as flames and explosions danced across the city.  Something exploded, out on the waters, and went up in a blast that outshone the sun.  Black smoke was drifting, now, and making its way across the city; he could see men in green uniforms trying to control the riots and firing into the crowds, driving them back.  He couldn’t tell if they were the hired security forces of Panama, or the invaders, whoever they were; whoever they were, they were mowing down people in the streets.  He stared, terrified; few Americans had survived experiences with foreign coups.

“What’s happening?”

He looked at the girl and wondered, again, what her name was.  “I think that Panama is at war,” Short said.  “Someone is attacking you.”

Her eyes flickered.  “The Americans?”

A force of massive aircraft appeared over the city, heading towards the airport and dropping paratroopers down towards the Presidential Palace.  There was no sign of any actual resistance; the Panama Defence Force had been disbanded years ago, and the foreign contractors would probably not put up a fight if they felt that they might well lose and then face the hatred of the people who hated them, with good reason.  Short had covered the activities of some of the foreign contractors in Iraq…and they had been pussycats, compared to some of the people Panama had hired.

“I don’t think so,” he said.  He had recognised the flag on one of the aircraft.  “Venezuela.”

The sound of shooting was still echoing around the city as one of the fighter jets came around for another run, heading to hit a target.  He wondered, suddenly, what the pilot was thinking as he swooped down on an undefended city; no one was attempting to even fight back, unless something happened to pull American aircraft into the fight.  He used his terminal, trying to find out of GNN knew anything about the American response, but there were reports of chaos all over the Caribbean.  Someone had filed a report that Cuba had declared war on the United States and had attacked the American base on their territory.   Any military information would be classified, but he would have liked to think that someone – somewhere – was responding.

The door blew in.  The girl screamed as two men, both wearing dark ninja-like clothes, burst in, weapons raised.  Short took a long look at them and raised his hands, offering no resistance when they ordered him to come with them.  The girl clung to him, until one of the men told her, not unkindly, that he wouldn’t be hurt.

“You can stay here,” Short told her, as they took a firm hold on him.  “The tabs paid for the next week.”

“American money is worthless here now,” the leader said.  “You will come with us.”

The streets seemed somehow quieter now, as they escorted him into a van and drove off, heading along the side streets.  There were signs of the riots everywhere, from bodies to burning buildings, but most people seemed to have gotten off the streets.  Hundreds of people, some of them wearing makeshift uniforms, were patrolling the streets; as he watched, a wealthy foreigner was strung up by a group of them.

“They’re the foot-soldiers of the revolution,” the leader informed him.  “You really don’t want to be caught by them.”

Short caught the unstated threat and kept his mouth shut.  They were entering a part of the city where there were fewer signs of devastation, and more soldiers around, watching them as they reached a nondescript building.  The leader passed him his terminal as they entered the building, watching him carefully to ensure that he did nothing with it until they were ready.  The building itself was covered in revolutionary propaganda, from pictures of Che to Fidel Castro, both long dead.  He realised, suddenly, that he was right at the heart of the revolution.

“Please be seated,” the leader said.  “Our leader will be with you in a moment.”

It was actually more like ten minutes, and when they arrived, there were two of them; a Colonel Montenegro and someone who introduced himself as Marco.  The former was a heavyset army officer with tanned dark skin, the latter a curious mixture of several different races, created in the melting pot of Panama.  They shook hands, very politely, but Short was certain that they were dangerous.

“Welcome to our headquarters,” Marco said.  “You may call this the centre of the revolution, although we will be moving most of our operations to the Presidential Palace, once we have cleared out all of the unpleasant surprises left behind by the President and his hired servants.  All of them, of course, will be fully documented and you will have access to them as soon as the process is completed.”

“Thank you,” Short said.  He leaned forward.  “No offence, but…”

“What is the point of this?”  Montenegro asked.  The Colonel smiled thinly.  “We are aware that you are a GNN reporter, and we want you to pass on a message to your Government.  The first thing is that we have been invited in by the new government of Panama” – he nodded at Marco – “who have asked for our support in ridding them of certain criminal elements, including the main families who make up the Government – the former Government.  The second thing is that we are working to bring the explosion of hatred against America under control, but to preserve the lives of Americans caught in Panama, we ask that the American government does nothing to make keeping the lid on harder, as it were.”

Short understood the unspoken threat; move against us and your people die.  He wasn't blind, also, to the implications of Montenegro doing the talking; the new state of Panama would be dominated by Venezuela.  They would hold it in a grip that would make the previous administration look angelic in comparison.

“We also regret the deaths of American servicemen,” Montenegro continued.  “In compensation for their deaths, we are prepared to offer American shipping – apart from military shipping, of course – free passage through the Canal for a year, this offer, of course, being contingent on America not attempting to violate Panama’s independence again.  It won’t be popular with our people, so you can understand how sincere the offer is…”

He paused.  “We intend to take the case of Panama to the OAS and the United Nations,” he concluded.  “As soon as possible, we will hold full and free elections, and the United States would be permitted to send monitors if it would like to send them.  However, we want you – we want the American President – to understand that we have made a commitment to defending Panama against all enemies, and if the United States attempts to violate that…well, we won’t be responsible for the consequences.  This is our best chance to escape American domination…and we will do anything to achieve our objective.”

Marco nodded.  “Let them know,” he said.  “Even if we have to fight in the rubble of the city, we won’t give up our independence again.  Don’t let them think that trying to put us back under their thumb will be easy…”

Chapter Seventeen: A Dark Down Under

Near Canberra, Australia

“Admiral, we are making the final approach now,” the pilot said, as the VTOL jet headed across the Australian countryside.  “You might want to strap in.”

“Understood,” Toland said, putting aside his reports and buckling himself into the seat.  “Any updates from the ships?”

“None since the update from Pearl about the repairs to the French carrier,” the pilot said.  There was a bitter tone to her voice; she’d lost friends in the terrorist strikes on the United States.  “We’re just about to land now.”

Toland glared down at his hands.  The disasters in the Caribbean were spreading out of control, even without the problem of direct Pact involvement.  There were attacks on American interests right across the region and the Cubans were laying siege to the prison on Cuba, as well as launching rocket and missile attacks on the United States.  It wouldn’t be much longer before the United States hit back – aircraft were already roaring over Cuba – but there were too many problems and too few resources to handle them all.

Toland, like most of the United States military, blamed the politicians.  No rational commander would send his ships into a possibly hostile situation without having everyone armed and ready for trouble, but the politics of the time – one day ago – had dictated that the ships in the Panama Canal were almost sitting ducks.  Uprisings in Mexico, revolutions in Columbia, Argentina looking at the Falklands and thinking about trying for them again…and the ships had gone in, almost defenceless.  The orbital observations, in hindsight, had picked up traces of the ambush, but nothing that had posed a real threat…or so they had thought.

He cursed under his breath as the aircraft came in to land.  There was far too much about American capabilities in open source material; the enemy had had plenty of time to think and devise countermeasures, from building thousands of cheap cruise missiles to taking advantage of American limitations.  If any of the reports from America were accurate, there were hundreds of warnings about terrorist strikes – one classified report had warned of a computer, attached to the telephone network, that had been firing off random warnings – and each of them had to be examined, just in case.  There were riots on the streets in some places in the American south; he suspected that groups like the Ku Klux Klan were about to have a major jump in their membership.

“Landing,” the pilot said, as the transport touched the ground.  There was a moment’s pause and then the hatch opened.  “They’re waiting for you, sir.”

Toland stood up, drawing in a deep breath and feeling the hot dry air of Australia touching his throat.  He had been to Australia before, during several smaller military deployments, but he had never been out in the outback.  They were only a few miles from Canberra…and the scene was like something out of a typical stereotype of Australia.  A small collection of shacks stood at one end of a runway, with hardly anyone, but his reception committee in sight.  That committee, one man wearing civilian clothes and a cork hat, grinned at the American Admiral in his uniform.

“Welcome to the secret command base,” he said.  “I'm Major General Townsend.”

Toland looked around.  “Command base?”

The desolation stretched as far as he could see.  The presence of the aircraft, its metal ticking in the heat, was the only sign of modern civilisation; he half-expected to see a herd of sheep or kangaroos heading across the plains.  The only sign that anyone had been nearby for longer than they had to was a single massive statue of a giant sheep, larger than any sheep he had ever seen.

“Let’s get out of the sun,” Townsend said.  His voice, now that Toland had had a chance to actually listen to it properly, sounded more English than Australian.  Townsend led the way towards one of the shacks, a building that looked as if it would fall down at any moment, and opened the door.  A wave of cool air struck Toland and he gasped in relief, then noticed just how clean and dry it was inside the shack.  Townsend led him directly to a set of stairs, heading downwards, and they walked down several flights before Toland’s mind caught up with him.

“What the hell is this place?”

“Only the secret command post for nuclear war,” Townsend said, soberly.  The Australian looked both proud and grim.  “In the event of something happening, this base will take over command of the Australian military and hopefully lead it to victory against whoever is attacking the nation.”  He paused to allow Toland to take it in.  “We stumbled on this set of caves fifty years ago, but no one was interested until we started having troubles with Indonesia, back in the days of the dictators there.  There was a lot of talk – mainly all talk – about an invasion, and so the planning staff began building the base.”

He grinned.  “You’ll get the full tour later, Admiral, but you’re the first American and only the fifth non-Australian to set foot here,” he said.  “There are only four hundred people in Australia who have any idea that the base even exists, and only fifty have any idea of its location.  Makes for some problems, as we are rarely allowed to even tell the Prime Minister, but security was considered a premium.”

“I never even knew that this base existed,” Toland said.  “Do the Chinese know about it?”

“Good question,” Townsend said, soberly.  “If I actually knew the answer, we would be a lot happier.  There are no signals coming from here and your aircraft  will be well away from here by the time the next Pact satellite passes anywhere near here, but it’s impossible to know for certain.  There was a big hoo-hah a while back about Chinese immigrants claiming that they were being discriminated against by the MOD, which didn’t do much for the government in the polls, even though many natives supported concerns about Chinese spies.”

He shrugged.  “There are only forty people down here during periods of international peace,” he said.  “During wartime, the number rises to two hundred, including the Prime Minister if there is a real threat of a decapitation strike aimed at Australia.  The caves themselves were found by a prospector – this entire place was once mined by some nutter and his Shelia – and it was quietly bought out by a dummy corporation.  As far as we know, no one knows that this base is even here.”

They passed through a large security door and a checkpoint, where Toland and Townsend were both examined by a tough-looking security guard.  “Most of the precautions here are invisible,” Townsend said, as they walked through a series of corridors.  Frankly, Admiral, if this location is attacked by a serious force, we don’t think it can be held for long.  There are some precautions I’m not at liberty to talk about, but our secrecy is our main defence.”

He paused.  “This is the government part of the complex,” he said.  “The Prime Minister is officially in Canberra, but most of his work is being conducted from this location.  This raises some security concerns, but after what happened in Europe, there can’t be any questions of taking chances with his life.”

Toland nodded.  Insurgents, terrorists and Special Forces had roamed freely through Europe, killing many of the members of the various European governments.  The French and Germans had been practically decapitated by the Russians; the British had been luckier.  They’d only lost a few government ministers, and their Prime Minister had survived.  He found himself wondering if the British knew about the complex, even as Townsend opened the door and waved him into a conference room.

“Prime Minister, this is Admiral Toland, United States Navy,” Townsend said.  He nodded around the room as he introduced the people.  “Prime Minister Kelly, General Hawthorne, Royal Australian Army, and Admiral Sutherland, Royal Australian Navy.”

Toland nodded; he’d met Sutherland, at least, before.  The man had a reputation for being a crafty strategist and tactician…and he had been able to justify that in the war games they’d played in the summer before the Third World War.  He was taller than Toland, which made him a giant among men, and had a bald head.  General Hawthorne was short, stocky, and had a long yellow moustache; he gave the impression of being permanently sullen.  Toland knew him by reputation; the Australian who had commanded troops in Afghanistan and a peacekeeping mission in Africa, until he had run into problems with the government of the day.

He was supposed to be a good man.

“Thank you for coming, and welcome to Major General Townsend’ little fiefdom,” the Prime Minister said.  There was a very grim note to his voice.  “Unless you Americans have not shared everything with us, our combined intelligence staffs believe that the Chinese do intend to launch an invasion of Australia, perhaps with Indian support, and that that invasion will come very soon, perhaps within the coming week.  Pete?”

Townsend tapped the large display on the side of one wall.  “The Chinese have been massing ships and troops in various harbours for the last few days,” he said.  “Flights of heavy transport aircraft have fallen rapidly from the high level they maintained last week to almost nothing, despite Chinese determination to smash the rebels operating in the badlands.  Fighter jets have been patrolling the skies and heading off some of our own reconnaissance flights, while we believe that the infantry brigade we have dug in on East Timor is being targeted for elimination as soon as possible.  Frankly, it’s something of a mystery why the Chinese haven’t moved against it already.”

“Lots of little logistics problems in exchange for a place that’s worthless without a great deal more investment,” Sutherland commented.  “What about the naval side?”

“The Chinese and Indians have over a hundred surface combatants and an uncertain number of undersea combatants within the region,” Townsend said, without missing a beat.  “That includes three carriers and it may include a fourth if the Indian carrier makes it there without being sunk by your old friends on the Inflexible.  In short, they outmass us by a sizeable amount, but we hope to have the advantage of air cover as the Chinese can’t put more than a hundred aircraft into the air from their carriers at most.  In short, they have upwards of a hundred thousand soldiers on Indonesia, and the capability to move most of them here.”

Toland nodded.  He had known most of that already, but it never hurt to hear it again.  The main problem would be in the Chinese logistics; they had to know that Allied submarines would be going mad trying to cut their supply routes, whatever it took to accomplish that task, while…

“Admiral, as you can see, Australia faces its gravest hour,” the Prime Minister said softly.  “Exactly how much help can you send?”

Toland swallowed.  He wasn’t looking forward to that discussion.  “The main body of the Pacific Fleet has been ordered to remain at Pearl Harbour until the situation in the Caribbean can be clarified,” he admitted.  It was a decision he profoundly disliked, had even argued against to the best of his ability, but there was little choice.  “The ships that are here now will remain here now, and the infantry division we placed here will also remain here.  At the moment…”

“In short, you’re going to abandon us,” Hawthorne growled.  “Admiral, it may have escaped your attention, but we need your ships and support.”

“I know,” Toland said, reluctantly.  “General, the Caribbean is on fire, Europe is under threat, and the Middle East is in serious trouble.  There are units being assembled now to be forwarded over here, but they may end up being diverted elsewhere as the situation warrants.  Submarines, which are practically useless against the problems in Central America, are coming here; if we are lucky, we will sink the entire Chinese force before it arrives at Australia.”

“Which still leaves us the task of deciding how to defeat an invasion,” General Hawthorne said.  He nodded towards the display.  “We don’t think that the Chinese will try anything clever like attempting to land at Perth or Sydney, which would just complicate their task even more.  They’re more likely to attempt to leap right across from their bases to Darwin, which is the main target in that area.”

He scowled deeply.  “We have a great deal of panic going on, and a lot of speculation in the press,” he continued.  “As you can see, we have several units of the army dug in near Darwin and preparing to repel an attack, but we expect the Chinese have some plan for dealing with them.  Ideally, we would want our mobile reserves to meet them on the beaches and tear them a new set of arseholes, but depending on where they land, well…”

“Insurgents,” Toland said.  “They’ve done that so many times before.”

Hawthorne gave him a droll look.  “Believe it or not, we thought of that,” he said.  “We had all of the Chinese immigrants under surveillance and actually rounded up most of the suspects in the first day of the war, under the War Powers Act.  In addition, we have banned civilian contractors from military bases and have even taken the time to evacuate the regions closest to the bases.  I don’t say that they cannot mount a commando operation in our rear, but I do say they’ll have some serious problems attempting to mount it.”

Townsend grinned suddenly.  “They’ll also have to face the local criminal fraternity,” he said.  “Believe it or not, many of the smugglers in Darwin betrayed a few pockets of Chinese sabotage units to the police, where they were arrested and locked up in camps.  I guess we’re all convicts at heart.”

Toland smiled.  “That’s something we should have done, what we all should have done,” he said.  “If we get out of the war, something will almost certainly be done about it, but…”

He remembered the grim days in Europe, where Russian agents and commandos had seemed to be everywhere.  It was largely smoke and mirrors, but the damage was real and very dangerous.  It had been a nightmarish time for them all, but worst of all for those who had allowed it to happen; he’d heard of ministers who had overseen the decisions being lynched in Europe…those who hadn’t been caught by the Russians.  It was all quiet on their front, but he had a feeling that it wouldn’t stay that way.

“We received a brief from the British about the Pact’s terms,” the Prime Minister said.  “I would like you to convey my severe displeasure to the President that we didn’t hear about it from him, particularly the Chinese determination to neuter us.  I trust that those terms will be rejected; whatever your President may think, he does not determine defence policy in Australia.”

“As far as I know, the President’s commitment to the war remains firm,” Toland said.  “Is this not something you should be passing on to Ambassador Asher?”

“We wanted a direct link to the President,” the Prime Minister said.  He looked at the map of Australia for a long moment.  “The population of Australia is small, compared to its size, and there are far too many places where an enemy force could get ashore almost unopposed.  I won’t lie to you, Admiral; without American support, winning becomes a great deal harder.”

“I understand,” Toland said.  “We won’t let you down.”

“On a different note,” the Prime Minister said.  “I understand from Captain Atwell that your plan to drop supplies to the insurgents in Indonesia is having an effect.  Do you feel that the effect is worth the effort?”

“The insurgents have had a number of successes,” Toland said, after a moment’s thought.  “The murder of the senior Chinese officers comes to mind, along with a handful of other actions; practically, it’s not a field where I expect great results, but only some spanners being thrown into the Chinese works.  If we are lucky, Mr Prime Minister, we might end up with the Chinese having too many problems to think about continuing the war.”

The Prime Minister looked up at him.  “In the years that…East Timor has been under our stewardship, they have made vast improvements to their standards of living,” he said.  “If we were to help liberate the rest of Indonesia, we might be able to actually end the eternal cycle of blood, tears and toil for them.”

“Maybe,” Toland agreed.  He thought, privately, that it was a little premature; Australia had to fight off the army gathering at its door first.  It was possible that they could tie down thousands of Chinese soldiers, but the Chinese had soldiers to burn, unlike the Allies.  “I think, however, that our first problem is winning the coming struggle for Australia.”

“True,” the Prime Minister said.  “Good luck with your side of the war.”

Toland sensed the bitterness in his voice and said nothing.

Chapter Eighteen: Stealth at Sea

USS Kelly Johnston, Near Indonesia

“The Canadian Government urgently repeated its diplomatic approach to Beijing in the wake of the cession of all broadcasts and statements from Beijing concerning the fate of thousands of Allied prisoners in Pact hands,” the talking head said.  She was literally a talking head; a digitally-created girl with a body right out of the worst male dreams.  Had she been real, she would have had real problems even sitting upright, let alone walking; Howery knew that there were dozens of illegal images of her flying around the internet, despite legal threats.  “The Canadian Government has asked Beijing to return to one-on-one talks, perhaps as a key to opening wider peace talks, but in the wake of the recent demonstrations in Ottawa, such proposals seem to have fallen on dead ears.”

The computer-generated girl smiled.  She was considered to be the most beautiful girl in America…and there were plenty of people who believed that she was actually real, somehow.  “The family of Lieutenant Stephanie Tsuji, captured by the Chinese following the disastrous battle at Taiwan, have appealed for her safe return…and marchers have demanded that the war be prosecuted.  Canada has mobilised its army…”

Howery snorted.  “What, all twelve of them?”

“…But as of an hour ago, the Canadian Government made no commitments to the war, beyond the service of a division in Europe, where tensions continue to rise,” the reporter-image continued, obviously unaware of Howery’s scorn.  “It is speculated that Canada will follow in the wake of France and Germany and conscript soldiers, but there are few legal precedents for any such conscription.  In fact…”

A chime at the door interrupted his viewing pleasure.  “Captain?”

”Come in,” Howery said.  The United States Navy tried to give its captains plenty of room, but the Kelly Johnston was too small to have a large crew space for anyone, even him.  “Yes, Luke?”

Luke Ferguson, one of the experts in the newer equipment that they’d taken onboard, looked in.  “Begging your pardon, sir, but Commander Lombardi would like me to inform you that we are approaching our entry point into Chinese-dominated waters and we will be there within twenty minutes,” he said.  “He ordered me to come here and…”

Howery mentally translated it as Lombardi wanting to get Ferguson out of his hair for a few minutes.  Ferguson – who bore more than a passing resemblance to Luke Skywalker – wasn’t a bad kid, but he was over-enthusiastic about his equipment; an unashamed nerd, in other words.  He was hardly the normal type of rough-and-ready seaman, but his skills were vitally important, important enough to overlook his faults.  Lombardi could have summoned him through the ship’s communications network if something had gone really badly wrong, but sending Ferguson on an errand was harmless, just…

He shook his head and picked up his cap.  “Thank you,” he said, gravely.  “I'm just on my way.”

The stealth ship felt different these days, not least because of the handful of Special Forces personnel they were carrying onboard, making yet another run into the badlands.  Indonesia had always been a nightmarish place for seamen – there had been real pirates operating in the waters, one of whom even flew a jolly roger – and a seaman could disappear there and never be seen again.  The USN had used to escort ships through the region, before the Chinese took over; they, at least, had earned the thanks of the world’s seamen by hunting down and executing most of the pirates.  

As he entered the bridge, his eyes flicked at once to the main display, revealing what was within a hundred kilometres of their position, sometimes further if something alarming was picked up by the sensors, or flashed to them by the orbiting satellites high overhead.  The loss of dozens of satellites hadn’t affected reconnaissance as much as the Chinese had clearly hoped – the USSC had orbited a few dozen microsats to make up much of what was lost – but there were definitely holes in the system.  Howery knew enough about the damage to the system – more than he was technically supposed to know – to know that the damage had played a role in the disaster in Panama; the satellites that were supposed to be covering the Marine battle group had had to be routed elsewhere to cover Admiral Barbara Kinninson’s force in the Atlantic, or Admiral Toland in the Pacific, or watching the Russians in Europe.

“Captain on the bridge,” the boson said.

“As you were,” Howery said.  The Kelly Johnston, being so different from any other ships of her navy, was less interested in protocol than other ships.  Given time, he was sure that some new protocols would be written, but for the moment he was making it up as he went along.  His crew were the best and brightest in the United States Navy; they weren’t always the most respectful of protocol.  There were times when he felt that he was running a madhouse.  “Bruno?”

Commander Lombardi vacated the command chair – the designers had watched too much Star Trek when they had designed the interior of the ship – and saluted.  “Captain,” he said, as Ferguson took his seat back, unlocking his station.  “We are approaching the badlands and its dark outside.”

It was hardly a stupid comment; much of the Kelly Johnston had no view onto the sea at all.  The stealth ship’s hull was designed to be as little radar-reflective as possible, which meant no portholes and a closed helicopter bay, rather than a landing pad like a more normal frigate would possess.  They were invisible to radar, but the crew had been horrendously embarrassed on their opening trials by the Mark I eyeball; a single alert Chinese sailor could spoil everything.  The Chinese would have loved to get their hands on the ship and its crew…and Howery had very specific orders to blow them all up before allowing that to happen.

“Good,” he said.  He took his seat and felt it moulding around him, providing him with the perfect seat; the comfort of the crew had also been considered by the designers.  “Any problems that I ought to be aware of?”

“There,” Lombardi said.  He tapped an icon on the main display and it expanded rapidly to reveal three aircraft, flying in formation nearly two hundred kilometres from them, but pumping out waves of radar energy.  “Those are Chinese AWACS and those, there, are Chinese fighters.”

Howery muttered a curse under his breath.  The Chinese had a habit of flying regular patrols around the region, just in case the Australians launched an attack, or perhaps to deter a low-level reconnaissance flight from Australia.  There was a lot of radar energy out there…and if it pulsed against his ship, it might give the Chinese a clue that they were present out in the night.

“We can take all three of them out with Metalstorm if they come closer,” the Weapons Officer muttered.  Howery was tempted, but his orders called for remaining in the shadows, rather than revealing their presence unless they were attacked.  A set of hypersonic SAMs could take them out, even at their vast distance, but that would give away their position like nothing else.  “There are a lot of Chinese ships in Anchorage Three.”

“Bastards,” Howery said softly.  Anchorage Three had been a disease-riddled swamp a few years ago, until the Chinese had transformed it into a naval base, some said by using forced labour from Indonesia.  The entire base had been carefully sealed by the Chinese, just to prevent an SSN launching a few homing torpedoes into the ships based there…and it was one of the places where he had been ordered to investigate, if possible.

He glanced down at his personal display and tapped it, bringing up his orders.  He was to recon out a handful of Chinese ports and airbases, and then land the Special Forces at a given location.  The second part of the mission worried him more; they would be coming in far too close to the target location…and then only if the insurgents signalled.  It could be a trap…and he did have authority to abandon that part of the mission if he felt that something was wrong, but there would be thousands of people second-guessing him.

“We’re headed into the exclusion zone now,” Lombardi said.  “Orders, Captain?”

“Mr Ferguson, I think this will require your first drone,” Howery commanded.  “Launch the drone at your discretion.”

He held his breath as the drone was launched into the sky.  The drone was supposed to be undetectable – it used a propeller engine, rather than a jet or a rocket – but he had heard far too much boasting from scientists before, normally just before something went badly wrong.  It took months, sometimes years, to work the kinks out of the equipment…and by the time it was finished, the system sometimes wasn’t needed anymore, or the enemy had managed to develop a counter-measure.

“There are no signs that we have been noticed,” Lombardi said, watching his display.  “Any contacts on the drone?”

“No targeting sensors or focused locks,” Ferguson said.  “We just passed through a wave of energy and they didn’t see the drone.”

“I hope you’re right,” Howery said.  “Helm, take us in.”

Not for the first time, he wished that he had ordered that permitted him to fire on targets of opportunity.  Admiral Toland’s suspicions that the invasion of Australia was coming sooner than anyone hoped seemed to be accurate; the Chinese were moving thousands of tons of material around, even in the night.  They had enforced a curfew on the native ships, normally by the simple expedient of firing on any non-Chinese ship after a certain time, and all of their targets would be Chinese.  No accidental collateral damage at all.

“We’re in,” Lombardi breathed.  They were whispering now.  “They don’t know we’re here.”

“Either that, or they don’t care,” Howery said.  He cleared his throat loudly enough to make some of his crew jump.  “Ferguson, take your drones over the survey path and put the main feed on the display.  Weapons, have a firing pattern ready for immediate response if they see us; I want everything we can hit targeted and locked down for destruction.”

“Aye, sir,” the Weapons Officer said.  It would be the first time that the ship had fired its weapons in anger, unless one counted helping to guide the cruise missiles in to hit China, back during Operation Vengeance.  That had been the first major strike back at the Chinese mainland, but it wasn’t enough, not after everything the Pact had done to America and the men and women of the United States Navy.  They wanted the Chinese to hurt…

I could fire everything I have into the region, Howery thought grimly.  They couldn’t react in time, not to prevent me from hurting them really badly before one of their aircraft put an antiship missile into us…and we would be still able to defend ourselves with the short-ranged weapons.  We would really be able to take revenge and we might even be able to prevent them from launching their invasion…

Orders were orders, he remembered; the USN had too few resources to handle all of the requirements, let alone risk trading a billion-dollar stealth ship for a handful of Chinese targets.  He had to admire the Pact’s determination; they built hundreds of inferior weapons and items, in the certain knowledge that some would be destroyed, but there would always be plenty more to carry on the attack.  The ships in Anchorage Three were no match for the latest American and British designs, but there were many of them and they had some tricks of their own up their sleeves.

He looked, now, at the images as the drone circled, high overhead.  There were nearly a dozen heavy transports, being loaded with tanks and heavy equipment, while there were parts of an odd-looking aircraft being shipped around and thousands of Chinese soldiers and sailors working away at their tasks.  He had seen American deployments that were smaller, with less sheer willingness to concentrate on logistics…for the first time, Howery had to admit that he was scared.  It was the same picture at the other harbours, dozens of ships, thousands of men…all being pushed towards one goal.  

Australia.

“We just picked up a microburst,” the communications officer said.  Howery tensed; it was rare, but not impossible, for a microburst to be picked up by electronic surveillance equipment…and the Chinese were bound to have deployed their latest tricks around their harbours.  “It’s definitely aimed at us and I’m deciphering it now.”

Howery relaxed slightly.  Microburst transmissions used very heavy quantum encryption to hide their contents; unfortunately, thanks to the Japanese, the Chinese possessed the same capability.  He had been told once, in strictest confidence, that the NSA could decipher some messages from the Pact, but they always took hours to accomplish…and normally, by the time they knew what they were looking at, it was too late to be useful.  No one had ever accused the Pact of being stupid, after all; the Chinese and Russians had plenty of experience in outwitting the NSA.

“They’re ready for the team,” she said.  “Captain?”

“Mr Lombardi, you have command,” Howery said, as he stood up.  He was the only member of the crew cleared to talk to the commando team on the ship, a piece of bureaucratic nonsense that might well harm the ship’s ability to react to what was happening.  The situation could change in seconds…while he was talking to a commando leader in the hold.  “Take us to the meeting point, best possible speed.”

The hold was intended to carry a smaller craft; for this mission, it carried a pair of SEAL boats and the SEAL team.  Howery winced slightly as he entered; the SEAL team had messed up the hold while getting ready to leave on their mission.  They were the bravest men that Howery had ever met, so he cut them some slack, but it was still irritating that they had messed up his ship.

“We’re just heading to the launch point now,” he said.  “Are you ready to move?”

The man who had been introduced to him only as Zulu – a massive black man with a wonderful smile and a nasty scar down the side of his face – grinned.  “No shit, man,” he said.  His accent was pure New Jersey.  “We’ve been ready for years to give them bastards some payback.”

“Good,” Howery said.  He held up his terminal.  “We can’t wait here for very long; we have to be well away by the time it gets light.  If you don’t find your friends, then signal for pick-up, or we might leave you there before you’re ready to stay.”

Zulu smiled.  “Don’t worry,” he said.  “We can do what we have to do.”

Howery returned to the bridge, in time to see the display of one of the larger islands coming closer.  The Chinese had a base at one end of the island; the insurgents had been asking for help to get rid of it, or at least make the Chinese miserable enough to stop trying to enslave the locals.  Howery had heard terrible rumours about what had happened – what was happening – in Indonesia, from plantation scenes out of the American South to full-scale ethnic cleansing.  No one seemed to know for sure, but the presence of people fighting the Chinese clearly suggested that some of them didn’t like Chinese rule.

“That’s the meeting point there,” Ferguson said.  “Look.”

Howery studied the feed from the drone.  There were a handful of people down on the beach, well-concealed, but not hidden from the scanners of the drone.  They seemed to be alone; the next closest people to the meeting point were over ten kilometres away.  It proved nothing – the Chinese could hide their people if they wanted to hide them from the drone’s sensors – but it was as good as they could hope to get.  If nothing else, the group on the shore had an American signalling device.

He pressed a button on his console.  “Launch the boats,” he ordered.  “Good luck.”

“I can barely see the boats and I can almost not see them,” Ferguson muttered, as the SEAL team paddled towards the shore.  They wore outfits that hid their heat signature, hiding them from Chinese sensors; the boat itself would give off no heat at all.  “Damn, they’re good.”

“They’re the best,” Lombardi said.  “Captain?”

Howery waited.  “That’s the all-clear now,” the communications officer said.  “I guess they found who they wanted to find.”

“Good,” Howery said.  His relief was beyond his ability to express.  “Helm, get us out of here, best possible speed.  Mr Ferguson, call in your drones; it’s time we made tracks for somewhere on the open sea.”

Chapter Nineteen: Old Ghosts

RAF Mount Pleasant, Falklands Islands

“There was a report from the destroyer on station,” Squadron Leader Ellis said, as the four pilots took their seats in the briefing room.  “There was an unknown submarine operating near the islands, and some air activity to the west.  We don’t know who was flying those aircraft in the current state of international tension, but the last thing anyone needs is a repeat of the Falklands War during the real war.”

Flying Officer Gilles Gabriel nodded in understanding, along with his fellow pilots; the RAF was badly overstretched, even with the breathing space that they had gained from the pause in the fighting.  The maths, however, admitted of no compromise; the RAF had started the war with five hundred combat jets…and had been knocked down to two hundred or thereabouts – the precise numbers were classified – by the fighting.  The occasional periods of tension with the giant to the west – Argentina – were dangerous times for everyone, but with all of Britain’s resources tied up in fighting the world war…

There were six RAF Tornado aircraft, each one over twenty years old, at the RAF base in the Falklands.  The pilots, one who was from Canada and one from South Africa, knew the odds and didn’t like them; the United States had sold the Argentineans some equipment and the French had sold them some more, including front-line combat jets to replace the aircraft lost during the Falklands War.  No one was quite sure how many modern jets the enemy – the pilots, Conservatives to a man, thought of Argentina as the enemy – actually possessed, but it was generally believed that they had over a hundred of the latest French aircraft.  The pilots were under no illusion as to how difficult their task would be if the islands were invaded again; they had planned to fight as far from the islands as possible.

A bell rang.  Squadron Leader Ellis glanced down at his terminal.  “We have new contacts,” he said grimly.  “They’ve been picked up by the radar…and they’re coming here; scramble!”

The pilots had practiced the drill often enough to do it in their sleep.  The aircraft themselves were already sitting out on the runways, carefully spaced out to avoid a lucky enemy attack taking them all out at once, and all they had to do was climb in and start to taxi to their launch points.  He ran though the shortened pre-flight check sequence, only permitted during times of war, and found nothing wrong, while the onboard computer updated itself from the base’s servers.  The reports were alarming, he realised, as he taxied out onto the runway and requested permission to launch; there were no less than eight contacts, approaching at very high speed from the west.

“Delta-one, you are cleared for take-off,” the flight controller said.  Gabriel hit the trigger and his aircraft raced along the runway and hurled itself into the air.  “Good hunting!”

His display was filling up as it linked into radars and other systems scattered around the Falklands, from the Army Air Force base near Stanley, to the commercial radar systems and the naval radars on HMS Dauntless, the frigate that was currently on patrol near the islands.  The targets were ignoring radio calls to identify themselves, but what else could they be, but Argentinean aircraft?  Who else even had the capability to launch fast-jet aircraft at the Falklands?

“Delta-three, Delta-four, hang back,” Gabriel ordered, as the other aircraft formed up on him.  They would have barely five minutes as they raced towards the unknown contacts.  “Run CAP for the airfield, cover us only if we need it.”

The Falkland Islands themselves were much larger than people thought, but they were behind them in a heartbeat as they picked up speed rapidly.  He reviewed, quickly, the Rules of Engagement; he could fire only if fired upon, or if he had a good reason to believe that they were about to be attacked.  There were a handful of other aircraft being picked up now on his radar, smaller escorts and transports…and he was starting to suspect that they were in real trouble.

“Command, are you getting this?”  He asked.  Even experienced pilots could be caught out by the sheer closing speed they were holding; they were flashing towards each other at faster than the speed of sound.  Some of the unknown aircraft were practically touching the waves, flashing closer and closer…and it was starting to look like the opening moves in a war.  “Command, I think that you had better call a general alert…”

“Missile lock,” Delta-five snapped.  Alarm buzzers were bleeping in Gabriel’s cockpit as well.  “They have a missile lock!”

“Evasive action,” Gabriel ordered, keeping his voice deadly calm.  He wanted to do nothing more than launching a missile back towards the unknown aircraft – no, he was trying to delude himself; the Argentinean aircraft - but he held his fire.  No one would thank him for starting round two of the Falklands War; it seemed that there was nothing that could dissuade successive Argentinean governments of the idea that the people of the islands actually wanted them to come and take over.  “Don’t let them keep the locks…”

“Missile launch,” a voice screamed.  Gabriel saw it clearly; one of the low-flying Argentinean aircraft had launched a missile towards the Dauntless, an antiship missile.  Three more were fired in quick succession, aimed right at the warship, leaving the destroyer to try to shoot them down before they could hit the ship.  “We have multiple missiles, incoming…”

“All Deltas, open fire,” Gabriel said.  They were at war…and this was their best chance to hurt the enemy before they could hit them.  “Launch missiles; choose your partners, and dance.”

His finger caressed his firing button and he launched a single missile towards his target, a modern Rafale jet.  The French-made aircraft spun and fired a missile back, ducking and weaving to avoid the missile he had fired, while another aircraft locked onto Gabrial’s aircraft, launching a second missile towards him.  He launched a series of flares, watching as one of the missiles lost its lock and fell towards the sea, the other striking the flares and exploding harmlessly.  His target had been less lucky; the Sidewinder struck it neatly in the underside and blew the aircraft into a ball of fire.

“Delta-six, I’m hit,” one of his pilots shouted.  “I’m…”

The Tornado vanished in a ball of fire.  The sky was covered with missile trails as both sides engaged the other; the Dauntless was firing missiles into the sky to try to even the odds, even as the antiship missiles closed in rapidly on the destroyer.  He heard a shouted warning and threw his aircraft into a mad spin, just in time to save himself from a second missile; his threat receiver hadn’t even noticed it before it had been almost too late.

“Incoming missiles,” someone shouted.  He realised with a flicker of shock that it was the Ground Controller, down below on the airfield.  His display was reporting missiles, launched from a submarine, aimed directly at targets all over the Falklands…and there was very little in place to shoot them down.  The Falklands hadn’t been a major place for placing newer equipment; even though he understood the logic, he cursed that decision now.  His people were about to die.  “Incoming…”

“Sir, they hit the Dauntless,” Delta-four said.  “Sir…?”

Gabriel launched his final missile towards an Argentinean jet and evaded its return fire with some difficultly.  The airframe was creaking all around him; he was starting to wonder just how safe it was, even though the ground crew – who were probably all dead now – had checked it several times.  There were only three – no, two; a burst of fire marked the death of one of his pilots – of them left…and they had no more missiles.  The Dauntless, below, was sinking…and there were newer enemy craft coming towards them.

He thought – briefly – about surrender, but surrender would be impossible; there was no longer anywhere to land on the Falklands Islands.  Much of the datanet had been knocked out, but enough remained to tell him that the Argentineans had hit all of the airfields, along with the military bases and the headquarters of the Falkland Islands Defence Force.  That force, at least, might have survived the strikes; given how quickly everything else had gone to hell, he wouldn’t have bet on anything else having survived.

“How many missiles do you have left?”  He asked.  There were four heavy transports making their slow way towards the islands; he wondered in a moment of droll hope if they were going to try to land on one of the airfields before realising that they had paratroopers onboard.  The Argentineans would have thought through everything that they had done the last time they had invaded, and corrected all of the mistakes; this time, they would make fewer mistakes…and the British Government already had a major war on its hands.  “We need to knock out the transports.”

“Two,” Delta-four said.  “I’m moving now to support you.”

“Hit the transports,” Gabriel ordered, as he swooped around and triggered his afterburners.  In hindsight, they had missed a chance to inflict decisive damage on the Argentineans by targeting their fighters instead of their transports.  “Follow me in…”

He pushed his aircraft to the maximum it could fly and jammed his hand down on the cannon.  An Argentinean fighter tried to get a missile lock, but he rolled and avoided the missile, firing into a transport in a moment of split-second contact.  He had the satisfaction of watching it exploded before his threat receiver screamed a warning…too late.  A burst of cannon fire cut into the rear of his aircraft and he hit the eject button, launching himself into the field of fire and death.  His aircraft fell towards the sea below, hitting it with a tremendous crash; he fell more sedately towards the sea, noticing another transport explode before something happened to the final British aircraft.  He hit the sea and his floatation device inflated automatically; his uniform staining the sea with a dry to attract attention.  He felt the cold drifting into his bones and…

He heard the outboard motor before seeing the small craft as it raced across the sea towards him.  By then, he could see no more signs of any resistance in the air, just what seemed like an endless line of transports, heading to the islands.  The speedboat was what looked like a Marine transport; he’d ridden in one once during drills and had loved the experience.  The faces looking down at him were not English, or Scottish, but Latin American.  They looked at each other for a moment, and then strong arms hauled him into the boat.  

“Drink this,” an Argentinean said.  His English was terrible.  “Welcome to the Islas Malvinas, eh?”

The White House, Washington DC

“It’s confirmed, then?”  The President asked.  “This is a Pact operation?”

“Several of them,” Simmons said.  He was still reeling inside; the Pact had clearly taken the lid off a few dozen conflicts and was currently reaping the rewards.  For very little investment, they had distracted America…perhaps long enough to prevent the United States from preventing them from making their gains solid.  “We picked this up, too late to be helpful.”

The image was hazy; the microsats were nowhere near as capable as a full-sized satellite, but it was clear enough to be sure.  “Those are Chinese and Russian-designed systems, some of them almost as capable as our own equipment, and they are being deployed into Panama.  Whatever Venezuela might say, those look more and more like an army of occupation; ironically, they might be welcomed by the locals.  The bloodletting was getting out of hand.”

“It’s only just begun,” the President said.  “What about the Falklands?”

“The British got their heads handed to them,” Simmons said.  “Unsurprising, with the massive imbalance of forces, but they took down nearly a dozen transports and fatally crippled the first attempt to land soldiers.”  He grinned.  “Someone must have forgotten to tell the air force that the navy had crated the runway; they tried to land a transport and roasted a few thousand soldiers.”

“Ha,” the President said sardonically.  “What’s happening there now?”

“There’s a war being fought on the islands, but the British forces are likely to lose,” Simmons admitted.  “They don’t have any resupply from Britain and I don’t think that we can send them anything to help, at least, nothing effective.  We can forward one of our carriers down to help, but by the time it got there…”

“The British would have lost anyway,” the President said.  “I just had a sharp conversation with the British Prime Minister; they want to put together another task force to throw the Argentineans out – again – but…”

“Everyone is overstretched,” Simmons said.  “In a couple of weeks, we might have the French carrier back in action, but that would take weeks to get there, even if the French agree to have it diverted to help out.  We and the British both have SSNs on the way, but that will take far too long…”

“We find a way of dealing with this crisis and then we handle it,” the President said.  He stared at the map.  “It won’t be long before they go west in Europe and try to jump for Australia, so…how do we handle it?”

Simmons had been giving the matter some thought.  “We have a substantial force in Europe,” he said.  “That’s not going to break easily, which gives us some breathing room, while the Australians are likely to be able to handle the first attacks…I recommend that we send two of the four carriers we have at Pearl there down towards Australia now, just to provide some reinforcement.  If we can wipe out that Pact fleet gathering in Indonesia, then…game over, at least in that region of the world.  They wouldn’t be able to go on the offensive again, and we would be able to launch the first part of our victory campaign.”

He spoke rapidly.  “Europe, even the Middle East, even the Pacific…they’re problems, but nothing we can’t handle,” he said.  “Panama…and the Caribbean, however…they’re disastrous.  We have far too much invested in the ability to use the Canal; if we lose it, the economic effects are going to hurt.  If we don’t strike back, as soon as possible, then we lose a large part of our economy and we might go into economic meltdown…and then the Pact has won.  The prospects of what might happen if Cuba managed to recover Guantanamo Bay Naval Base are even worse; let’s face it, Mr President, if Cuba tries and executes the men there, a lot of our people will cheer.”

The President scowled.  The detainment camp currently held over a hundred people, most of them fighting their final appeals against the sentences handed down to them by American courts.  Several of them, ironically, had been the subject of Pact demands; their involvement in terrorist activities in Pact countries was well-documented.  Cuba could hardly do better for the Pact then to kill them all…and Simmons knew that a large minority of Americans were equally disgusted with the slow process towards executing them.  Many of them had had four, even five, appeals against justice…

“So we have two priorities,” Simmons continued.  General Armstrong nodded.  “We have to relieve Guantanamo Bay as quickly as possible, and the USAF has the resources to handle that, if we move now.  The Cubans…have fired on American territory and even on Florida; they cannot be allowed to get away with it.  Second, we have to recover Panama, at least the Panama Canal Zone; we can rush Marines into position to strike…”

“After an air campaign,” General Armstrong injected.  His voice was grim, and yet eager to embrace the new challenge.  “Mr President, we have to do something permanent about Cuba.”

He spoke rapidly, outlining his plan.  “I honestly don’t think that we have any choice,” he concluded.  “We have to put an end to this threat once and for all, and God knows we have plenty of people willing to help us.  If we do nothing, we will be forever hostage to Cuba and the need to protect Guantanamo Bay.”

The President nodded.  Simmons saw that he looked older; there had been real repercussions from the fighting as it spilled over into the Continental United States, from gang warfare to battling drug lords, eager to preserve as much as possible of their sources of supply.  Asian street gangs had been attacked by other street gangs, Mexican and other Hispanic immigrants had been attacked in the streets…and had had to take up arms in order to defend themselves.  There were thousands more guns on the street; the Governor of California had lost a sharp vote attempting to ban the sale of guns to all of the people who wanted them.  

“We cannot afford to lose,” the President said finally.  The determination in his voice shook Simmons; it was hard and brittle.  “I want you to commit whatever you need to hit them as hard as you can, don’t leave anything behind that you can use.”

“Understood,” General Armstrong said.  He had been a young officer when the White House had tried to limit what weapons were permitted in a combat zone, therefore leading to small and embarrassing disasters; he wouldn’t make the same mistake.  “We won’t give them a moment to enjoy the fruits of their treachery.”

“Good,” the President said.  He looked quickly at Simmons, and then back at the General.  “How soon can you launch the operation?”

“We can move ahead with part one now, and part two tomorrow,” General Armstrong said.  “They won’t be expecting us to move so quickly…and believe me they’ll be stunned.”

“See to it,” the President said.  “They’ve had their fun…and now we are going to hit back.  We’ll see who laughs last.”

Chapter Twenty: Let’s Go To Havana

Guantanamo Bay, Cuba

“Hit,” a soldier shouted.  “We got the bastard!”

Master Sergeant Robert Ward grinned for a moment.  The assault on Guantanamo Bay – which was more than just a prison, no matter what the Left said – was into its third hour…and the Cubans hadn’t managed to get into the second defence line, let alone the base itself.  There was more firepower inside the base than outside – or at least it looked that way – and the Americans knew how to use it.  Judging by the line of Cuban tanks burning outside the base, the Cubans knew nothing about how to use their firepower.

“Get your head out of your fucking ass,” he shouted.  They didn’t have time to spend congratulating themselves.  It was starting to look as if his unit would run out of antitank shells before the Cubans ran out of tanks; some of the tanks that had tried to charge his position before the Cubans learned better had dated from before the Cuban Missile Crisis.  “We don’t have fucking time to waste!”

The soldiers didn’t hesitate as another flight of Cuban shells howled over their heads, heading in towards the base, while American guns fired back, attempting to knock out the Cuban weapons.  The Cubans had attempted to fly a set of bombers over the base, once they had realised that the Americans weren’t going to surrender at the first splash of blood; they had learned better after SAM missiles had blown them out of the sky.  Ironically, one of the crashed aircraft had inflicted more damage on the base than anything else; it had come down on top of one of the barracks.

“Shame it wasn’t a prisoner barracks,” he snarled, as a line of Cuban infantrymen appeared, sneaking up the road towards them.  Castro’s successor regime, a bunch of bureaucrats who lacked either Castro’s charisma or his skill at conning anti-American regimes out of cash and support, hadn’t invested in military training, not least because it would have created a serious threat to their position.  A competent military commander might have been able to take the base, or at least make the cost of defending it higher than America was prepared to pay, but the yes-men they had commanding the assault clearly made Haig and his contemporaries look intelligent.  “Jane?”

Jane, who revelled in the nickname GI Jane for some reason, was the deadliest sniper he had ever met.  The Cubans thought that they were out of range, perhaps under the impression that their tanks and artillery had suppressed the Americans…and they were wrong.  As Jane went to work, never missing with a single shot, the Cuban will to advance melted away; the remainder of the group turned and fled, one of them with a bleeding arm as a bullet smashed it.

“Fuck, he’s still alive,” Jane swore.

“Ah shit, he’s still alive,” Ward said wryly.  “We’ll put the court martial off for a few hours, should we?”

Quiet fell, just long enough for him to wonder what the Cubans were planning.  A glance down at his terminal showed a new Cuban force massing, just out of easy range from the gunners; satellite observation was no longer what it once was.  The Pact had damaged enough satellites to make the rest almost unusable.  They could no longer count the zits on the Cuban faces, but they would at least know when they were advancing again.  The Cubans looked as if they were arguing; he wondered if they would be firing on their own officers, rather than advance against a position an American unit could have taken in an hour.

“Now, that’s not good,” Jane commented.  Ward frowned; a Cuban woman, of all things, was haranguing the soldiers below.  “Those typical men would sooner get a bullet from us than disappoint her.”

“Fell, perhaps we need your services,” Ward said.  “Perhaps you and Kit could turn them and then do a dance of the seven veils for them…”

“Hey, Sarge, I don’t need veils,” Nelson said.  He was known as Fellatio Nelson, not least because he was one of two homosexuals in the base.  Rumour had it that they had been assigned to the base to help get confessions out of the terrorists, but Ward knew perfectly well that that was untrue; both men were fine soldiers.  “Give me five minutes with a Latin hunk and he’ll be completely at my bidding.”

“Just leaves more Cuban women for us real men,” a soldier injected.  “Sorry, Jane.”

“Fuck you,” Jane said, lifting her finger to him.  “I’ll just steal Fell’s man and leave him in the…”

“Showtime,” Ward snapped, as the howl of a mortar appeared in the air.  An explosion, far too close to their lines for comfort, blasted up smoke and dust.  “Jane, watch for anyone trying to sneak up and discourage him, Fell, get onto the blower and tell them that we need some artillery support, danger close!”

The Cubans seemed to have learned one think from their previous disasters; they were much more spread out and using their mortars to cover their advance.  Or, Ward thought cynically as Jane started to pick off Cubans, they had decided to deploy a slightly more capable unit into the fight, one that knew better than to just repeat the tactics of the First World War.  He wished them luck; the American position was tougher than the Cubans had realised and needed a major attack to clear it.

American shells roared in at danger close, close enough that there was a danger that they would accidentally commit fratricide and kill Americans.  Ward held his breath as Cuban gunners attempted to strike back, but their electronics were several generations behind America’s electronics; the Chinese and Russians clearly hadn’t considered Cuba worth the deployment of their latest equipment.  Alternatively, of course, they hadn’t considered it worth the danger of losing equipment; Cuba was almost impossible to defend against the Americans.

Not that the Cubans realised that, of course…

“Medivac,” someone shouted.  “We need a fucking medical helicopter now!”

“We can’t,” the communications officer snapped.  “Sir, they’ve ordered all American aircraft to clear the skies!”

“Fuck,” Ward thundered.  The sense of betrayal was surprisingly strong.  “Why the hell have they done that?”

“I don’t know,” the officer shouted back.  “They’ve just ordered the base’s helicopters to leave the sky to the frigging commies!”

“Get him on a stretcher and get him back to the base,” Ward ordered.  The helicopters had been doing excellent work covering the battle; without them, it might become much harder to hold the line.  “I think we need…”

It was then that he heard the aircraft.

***
“All friendly aircraft have been cleared out of the skies,” the controller said.  Captain John Hendrick smiled thinly, rather assuming that his aircraft also counted as friendly.  The flight of F-22 Raptors were approaching Cuba at a speed that wouldn’t give any of the Cubans time to respond, even if they could see his aircraft.  The F-22 aircraft weren’t perfectly stealthy, but they weren’t broadcasting any active sensor emissions or anything else that might attract attention.  The Cubans would have to get a radar lock on them…and there was no sign that they had accomplished such a feat.  “You are clear to proceed.”

Hendrick checked his scope quickly.  The Cubans had, according to intelligence, two hundred modern or fairly modern jet fighters, all of which in the hands of a capable pilot would be a real problem.  The radar from the orbiting pair of AWACS aircraft, flying north of Cuba, was only picking up fifty aircraft, some of them looking as if they needed urgent attention to prevent them from falling out of the sky.  The aircraft were remaining well away from the base, after some had been shot down; several of them had attacked American shipping in the Caribbean and had been intercepted by USN aircraft from the carrier nearby.

“All right, Daggers,” he ordered.  “Close in and prepare to engage at will.”

He hit his afterburners, even as flickers of microburst transmissions flickered between the aircraft, designating targets.  Each of the Raptors carried four air-to-air missiles; he selected two targets for the first engagement and prepared to fire as they rocketed towards the Cubans, who still seemed unaware of their presence.  If everything went to plan, they would not have any time at all to react; the aircraft would be on them before any warning could reach them.  They could have engaged at almost any point from when the onboard systems could pick the enemy ships up; he hadn’t wanted to waste a missile.

“Engage,” he snapped.  “Fox-two!”

A pair of AIM-120 Advanced Medium-Range Air-to-Air Missiles blasted away from the Raptor, leaving a trail of flame in the sky as they lanced towards their targets at supersonic speed.  The other aircraft in the sky were firing as well; all twelve aircraft in the lead flight launched two missiles, aimed directly at the Cuban aircraft.  The Cubans must have seen the missiles, but it was too late; the radar-guided missiles streaked to their targets and detonated.  The puny countermeasures couldn’t hope to save the aircraft.

“Daggers, we assess that you have twenty-four kills,” the controllers said.  The remaining Cuban aircraft were turning to face their targets, rather unwisely in Hendrick’s view, although nothing short of ejecting could have saved their lives from the American aircraft.  “Excellent shooting; good hunting for the second part of the attack.”

“Yeah, yeah, tell us all about it,” Hendrick muttered.  The Cuban radars below were coming online as their operators panicked, a dreadful mistake.  Other American aircraft were closing in on Cuba, even now.  “Daggers, engage the enemy.”

He launched his second pair of missiles, AIM-9 Sidewinder missiles, aiming them directly at a pair of Cuban MIGs.  The Cubans achieved a brief lock-on to one of his aircraft, firing a missile towards him, but he evaded it with contemptuous ease.  The Cuban missile went wide; the American missiles didn’t miss…and more Cuban aircraft were destroyed in balls of fire.

“One of the missiles misfired,” one of his pilots said.  “The enemy survived.”

“Joy,” Hendrick said sardonically.  The Sidewinders were older weapons, less reliable than the AMRAAM missiles.  “Remind me to write you up for charges later.”

He glanced down at his scope.  It had been the most one-sided victory in history; they had shot down forty-seven Cuban aircraft in exchange for no American aircraft.  They could have closed in and engaged the surviving Cuban aircraft with their cannons, but he had orders for that situation; nothing was to compromise their victory.  The Cubans on the ground were going mad, launching missiles into the air almost at random; one of their missiles actually struck a Cuban aircraft and blew it out of the sky.  Their radars had been located…and they were about to be hit.

“Prepare to launch the bombs,” he ordered.  Each of the Raptors carried two Joint Direct Attack Munition weapons, prepared to engaging the Cuban radar sites.  The targets had already been located, thanks to the Cubans turning their weapons on…and now they were about to pay.  “Bombs away!”

The Raptor jumped as it released its two weapons, leaving it almost unarmed, except for it’s cannon.  Even as the bombs were falling, the pilots hit their afterburners again and raced out of the combat zone, leaving a handful of Cuban aircraft in the air, wondering what was going to happen next.  They wouldn’t have long to wait before they found out.

“We count seven direct hits,” the controller said.  He counted as the other bombs found their targets.  “Good shooting; now come on home.”

Hendrick smiled.  “Understood, Control,” he said.  “We’re on our way.”

***
It was, General Vanessa Fairchild had already decided, turning into a classical American air campaign.  Her command aircraft, a modified AWACS aircraft hanging high over the Caribbean, was probing what remained of the Cuban defences…and she knew that they had taken a pounding.  The Pact had proven that most of its SAM weapons were better than predicted, but it looked as if they had been reluctant to send many of them to Cuba.  Panama was much more important…but Vanessa had already decided that as soon as the President gave the order, Panama would no longer be a problem.

“We assess that the Cuban ground defences have been weakened by as much as seventy percent,” her aide said.  “The F-22s are leaving the region now.”

Vanessa nodded thoughtfully.  They had stuck the first blows, but one thing that they had learned from a dozen war was that they couldn’t give the enemy time to react.  Losing all of their aircraft – or most of them – wouldn’t give a Third World enemy pause…and, for all of its location, Cuba was still a Third World country.  It’s very existence as a tyranny was an affront to America and what it stood for; Vanessa intended to ensure that this time, the job was done properly.

“Send in the second strike group,” she ordered.  “It’s time to commence knocking down Cuba and it’s ability to hurt us.”

The second strike force consisted of Hornets and Super Hornets, with B-52s in support.  The Hornets raced towards Cuba at low-level, watching for the remaining Cuban radars and launching HARM missiles towards each and every radar that was active or had been known to be active.  Vanessa knew that there would be some unavoidable instances of missiles blasting empty locations that had once housed a mobile radar, but she didn’t care; she wanted to literally smother Cuba’s air defences.  The Cubans fought or tried to fight, but their defences had been hammered by the Raptors; the Hornets targeted any missile installation that tried to attack them.  Only three Hornets were lost; Vanessa had expected, in her worst-case predictions, a dozen lost aircraft.

The B-52s inched closer, remaining well outside the range of any serious threat, and started to deploy heavy stand-off weapons, from cruise missiles to JDAM bombs, targeting them on Cuban military formations.  The Cuban forces outside the naval base were targeted for heavy attention; JDAM bombs lashed down from the sky and hammered them into insignificance.  The attack on the base faltered, and then collapsed; limited American counterattacks were all that was required to send the Cubans into headlong retreat.

“The reinforcement flights are already on their way, General,” her aide said.  “They’ll be at the base within an hour and then they’ll be able to start the advance.”

Vanessa grinned.  It was the most ambitious attack in American history…and it hadn’t even yet fairly begun.  It was daring, daring enough that no one would have agreed to try it before the Third World War had broken out, but if it worked, Cuba would never be a problem again.  If it failed…well, they would only have to wait a couple of days for the advance from the naval base to begin.

“Good,” she said.  The report from the base was clear; they were secure, again.  Some of the post-strike assessment was already starting to come in; they had managed to damage the Cubans seriously…and now it was time for the final major blow.  “Send in the final attack wave.”

There were literally thousands of aircraft in the air, representing almost every American service from the Navy to the National Guard, each one carefully assigned to a given task.  Heavy bombers, from B-52s to the smaller F-117s and the stealthy B2 aircraft, headed in towards Cuba, already checking their targeting lists.  The CIA had a list of targets in Cuba that needed to be hit in the event of war breaking out…and all of them had been targeted.  Vanessa had seen the list; there were hundreds of targets, ranging from military and government installations to even police stations and prisons.  The Cubans would never know what had hit them…and by the time they managed to pull together a government, they would find American troops occupying most of Cuba.

“The Airborne soldiers are requesting permission to move in,” her aide said.  Three thousand light infantry, prepared for a landing right in the heart of Cuba; just for a moment, it struck Vanessa that she was about to launch the first American invasion since Iraq, unless one counted Iran.  “Their target zone has been plastered, as per instructions, and their transport aircraft are ready.”

Vanessa nodded.  The display was updating constantly, almost too much was happening for the display to keep track of as thousands of aircraft moved over Cuba.  Targets blinked on the display as they were hit, other targets were located by intelligence staffers watching the Cubans through satellites and uploaded into the targeting lists.  It was a minor miracle that the Cubans hadn’t managed to shoot down more than a handful of American aircraft; it was a bigger miracle that no aircraft had been lost to friendly fire.  She noted, dispassionately, the encounter with a flight of MIGs from Venezuela; all of them had been shot down without American losses.  

“Order them to move in and make sure that they have permanent support orbiting overhead,” she ordered.  The Airborne soldiers had orders to seize José Martí International Airport, the commercial airport close to Havana and expand their beachhead, not unlike what the Russians had done in Poland.  José Martí International Airport was only eleven kilometres from Havana; the next morning, Marines would be landing all across Cuban, followed by regular divisions and civil affairs units.  “If the Cubans can react, I want them covered, understand?”

She smiled.  In a week, Cuba would have a new government…and that particular pain in the American arse would be over.  They had learned from Iraq; there would be enough American soldiers to secure the entire island and begin the hard task of rebuilding it, but there were plenty of Cuban exiles willing to return to their old home and help rebuild.  As soon as the preliminary security work was done, she would turn her attention to Venezuela…and they would wish that they had never been born.

Chapter Twenty-One: Chinese Whispers

Hong Kong, China

“You must understand, us Chinese like to think in terms of a long and stable past,” Wang Xilai said, as the marchers started their long march through the centre of Hong Kong.  Kady Jones eyed him for a moment, and then looked back down at the marchers; many of them were young, schoolchildren, or very obvious newcomers to Hong Kong.  The city had never reconciled itself to rule by the Communist Party, despite nearly twenty years of semi-peaceful rule; resistance tended to be mounted in the forms of quiet defiance and sometimes outright ignoring of communist rules.  A law banning the development of private websites had simply resulted in the websites being moved to off-shore data havens and America; an attempt to censor the Internet had resulted in one young hacker knocking out the software and rewriting it so that it looked as if it was still working, but in reality it wasn't working at all.  “Marches such as these help us to remember the past.”

Kady frowned.  There were the standard red banners and flags of any march – marches not organised by the communist cadres were banned, naturally – but there were also pictures and images, some of the current President of China, others of Mao and even a wrinkled old woman with a wicked expression on her face.  Mao posed a problem for the Chinese Communists today; he might have been the Great Leader, but he had also been a peasant with poor tastes in women and strange ideas about how to run a country.  He had set the Chinese people back years…and even now, they preferred to forget him if they could.

“I would have thought that you would have wanted to forget the past,” she said, after a moment.  The wrinkled old woman puzzled her; there were women in the Communist Party, of course, but she knew many of them by sight.  The woman was none of them.  “It was dominated by class enemies, wasn't it?”

Wang shrugged.  The marchers had reached the new-old stable of rabble rousing; they had brought out American flags and were setting light to them.  Kady noticed that some of the Hong Kong natives watching the march – there were few of them, but she could identify them with ease - turned their backs at that point; Hong Kong would have loved to have remained under the British, or even the Americans.  She knew, deep inside, that many on the island were praying for an American victory in the war.  A novel of alternate history, what-if Hong Kong had remained British, had been extremely popular in Hong Kong, even though the author had had to vanish underground before the Chinese caught up with him.

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Wang said.  He had been educated at Harvard; sometimes, he even sounded American.  She wondered, then, if his private activities had been formed in the heart if America.  His fellow communists would not be happy to know anything about them.  “We like to think of history as falling within a pattern; long periods of peace and stability, short periods of conflict, followed by the establishment of a new government, the same as the old government.  As you can see” – he waved a hand at a burning Japanese flag – “we have long memories.”

Kady nodded towards the image of the old woman.  “Who was she?”

“The Dowager Empress,” Wang said.  “She ruled in China and kept the old Chinese ways, even to the point of defying western powers and preventing them from destroying China through dividing it up between the powers…and look where we are now.  We have an empire again, we sent the Americans fleeing from the Pacific…what more do we want?”

“Democracy and stability,” Kady said.  “Here comes the new boss, just as big a bastard as the old boss?”

“True,” Wang agreed.  He leaned forwards.  “There are…events like these going on all over China, when we remember old hatreds and old blows struck against us.  It’s supposed to be spontaneous, but it has been carefully choreographed. Most of these marchers have been prepared to take part in the march, others have been ordered to attend on pain of losing their jobs, or worse.  The idea, of course, is to remind the Chinese of everything that has happened to China…and get them to support what has happened…and what will happen.”

Kady lifted an eyebrow as a group of American POWs were marched through the streets.  She noticed – she couldn’t help, but notice – that the crowds jeering and throwing rotten fruit were all clearly prepared for their role, with fruit provided for their use.  She felt cold hatred, just for a moment; GNN would use the images she had recorded for promoting the war in America…and they would grow to hate the Chinese.

She turned slightly, unwilling to look any more.  “And what will happen?”

“A little bird has whispered in my ear that a major military operation is underway,” Wang said.  “It’s partly in response to what happened in Cuba two days ago, partly to attempt to bring America and its Allies to the bargaining table, but it’s important to prepare the Chinese people for sacrifice.  Would you believe that support for the war is pretty low?”

“You started it,” Kady pointed out.  She allowed her voice to become mocking.  “Don’t your people support the war?”

“It depends on what you mean by support,” Wang admitted.  He stood beside her, looking down on the march below, which looked as if it was on the verge of turning into a riot.  The Triad Gangs might try something – they didn’t like the communists very much – or one of the pro-democracy movements might try to stage a protest march of their own.  Hong Kong was so important to China’s economy that a riot that damaged the city would have unpleasant repercussions for China’s ability to actually fight the war.  “There was a great deal of support for the victory in Taiwan, and for the advancing without fighting policy…”

Kady snorted.  The ‘advancing without fighting’ policy was propaganda bullshit, attempting to disguise the fact that China couldn’t invade Taiwan, not any longer.  It looked and sounded good – an offer to Taiwan to accept the mainland’s supremacy in exchange for granting them nearly-complete autonomy – but everyone in the know knew that it was more an admission of defeat than anything else.  The strikes on Chinese shipping had ruined China’s planned invasion; they had lost face in that particular strike.

“…But at the same time, there was grave concern over the long-running nature of the war,” Wang continued.  If he was aware of her thoughts, he said nothing.  “China had a major export market in the United States…and, of course, all of that has been closed by the war.  Exports to Africa and Asia have also been curtailed, despite the need to produce more war equipment for the fighting; there have actually been some nasty strikes that you lot weren’t supposed to know about.”

He winked.  Kady got the message and nodded.  “And then some moron started a nuclear exchange,” Wang growled.  “There was one hell of a lot of panic, Kady; you may remember some of it, even through the only bomb went off in Vietnam.”  He snorted.  “There were cheers when it was realised what you Americans had hit.”

Kady smiled thinly.  There was little love lost between the Chinese and their Vietnamese brothers, even though the Chinese Communist Party had gone out of its way to promote Vietnam to the Chinese, particularly since Vietnam had been forced into the Pact of Opposition.  The Vietnamese had been held up as the noble Asians who had kicked America’s butt, but the Chinese hadn’t dwelled on how they had done that…for fear that the Vietnamese would do the same to them.  The destruction of a major Vietnamese naval base had pushed tensions between the two nations to the breaking point.

“The panic led to a lot of quick reassessment on the part of our noble leaders,” Wang said, his voice dripping with scorn.  “Some of them started to look for a way out of the war, others started to look for a ways to bring it to a victorious end.  You see, My Dear, the leadership of the Pact had planned the war carefully…but at some point, they knew that the plan would have to be abandoned.  No battle plan survives contact with the enemy; you may as well know that the plan had been to literally annihilate the multinational fleet and to have Russian troops watching the show at that unpronounceable Parisian café.”

He sobered.  “By now, the Americans would have been driven out of the Pacific, the Europeans would have been forced into sucking Russian cock, and the Middle East would be firmly under the control of India,” he said softly.  “As you know, it didn’t quite work out that way, and now…now, they look at what you did to Cuba…and they’re scared.”

Kady shrugged.  She hadn’t been able to access more information that what had been available on the public net, but one thing had been clear; Cuba and its government had been crushed within a day.  American forces had landed in Havana and the government – what little was left of it – had just melted away, some of them unlucky enough to fall into the hands of young Cubans when the boot was finally knocked off their necks.  American troops had been cheered on the streets of Cuba; the few remaining Cuban soldiers had either deserted or were begging the Americans for protection from their own people.  The entire operation had been a stunning success…and, if the first reports were accurate, Cuba would end up almost an American state.  The number of Cubans flooding over from Florida to Havana would almost guarantee it.

“Oh, that’s not what they said at the press conference,” Wang said.  “They were predicting that you would face an Iraq-level insurgency within a week, but between you and me, they know better; they’re scared, particularly when they think about the problems in Indonesia and how even extreme ruthlessness doesn’t get rid of all of the problems.”

“No, starvation will do that,” Kady snapped.  She had seen some of the classified reports; Chinese soldiers had committed some of the most horrifying atrocities against the Indonesians, even while shipping in thousands of Chinese to take their place.  She had had enough of her life, sitting in Hong Kong and sipping coffee while the world burned down around her.  “Don’t you think that people will have learned from Iraq?”

“Americans are not that good at learning from anywhere,” Wang said.  He frowned.  “Of course, a lot of the people who took part in Iraq will still be in service, and the United States has plenty of soldiers who can speak Spanish, so…”

He shrugged again.  “What you have to know is that all of this is being done for a reason,” he said.  “Something really big is about to be launched, something that might determine who wins and who loses this war.  That little display, down there, is to get the people prepared for whatever the ultimate price of winning the war actually is.”

Kady took a long breath.  “Wang, we’ve been…friends for years,” she said.  “Answer me one honest question; why don’t they just seek a peace agreement instead?”

“There has been a peace conference,” Wang said.  Kady gaped at him.  “It was a secret, love; one thing you learn quickly if you go into politics is that it’s better if the general public don’t know a few things…”

“Like how much is being paid to politicians to pontificate all the time,” Kady said.  “I repeat my question…”

“Face,” Wang said.  He rubbed his own for illustration.  “Any politician in China who loses too much face is likely to end up being…removed.  At one point, that was removed through lead poisoning, as the movie stars put it; someone who showed weakness was jumped on by someone who wanted his post.  It didn’t matter why he had lost face, you understand; it was enough that he had lost it.  Now…someone who loses face will end up without any authority at all; if the President decides to order an unconditional surrender, the military will tell him to go fuck himself.”

He smiled at her expression.  “And so will the remainder of the Central Committee,” he continued.  “Orders won’t be obeyed, military and political leaders outside Beijing will attempt to snatch power for themselves, many will attempt to win glory though random attacks on the enemy – or ever each other – and someone stronger in Beijing will take power.  Someone junior to the President – myself, for instance – will be shuffled off into a post somewhere well away from the leavers of power…”

Kady held up a hand.  “Are you telling me that China will not accept – ever – a peace?”

“I’m telling you that if the peace terms are unsatisfactory, there will be no peace,” Wang said.  “They want – some of them want – to get out of the war, but they need to secure a peace that will result in us keeping most of our gains.  Others think that all we have to do is smack America in the nose a few more times and you’ll get the idea; one or two of the older members even think that it would be possible to land an army on the American continent.  If they were offered a return to the pre-war status quo, they would refuse.”

“You know that it’s madness,” Kady said.  She groped for words.  “Destroying an empire to win a victory is no victory.”

Wang gave her an ironic look.  “How true,” he said.  “Kady…answer me a honest question; can I trust you?”

Kady studied him for a moment.  “Yes,” she said, shortly.  “What do you want from me?”

Wang stood up and started to pace.  “There are…people within the government who are prepared to…end the war,” he said.  His pacing grew more agitated; she had never seen him so nervous.  She realised that he had literally put his life in her hands.  “The people who…wanted a major end to the war, perhaps even an end to the stand off over Taiwan and an end to the control of the communist party.”  He grinned weakly.  “In typical fashion, many of the people who want that end are already members of the communist party.”

Kady shrugged.  Everyone who wanted to be anything in China had to be a member of the Communist Party.  Americans rarely understood that; jokes aside, Democrats and Republicans served together in the army, the navy, the fire service…political affliction wasn't a matter of great concern in America.  For what was in effect a Party State, membership in the Party and lip service to its doctrines was the only way forward.  Even the great reformer who had been publicly executed by the Chinese had been a member; many of the students who clashed with government troops had been members.

“I – we – need you to find out something for us,” he said.  “What would be America’s terms for ending the war, if we managed to take over?”

Kady looked at him sharply.  “I don’t know,” she said.  “I could ask someone…oh, yes, I can ring up the President and ask him directly.”  Her voice darkened.  “I’m only a simple reporter, Wang; what do you think I can do?”

“GNN has connections to the CIA,” Wang said.  “You can make the request if you try, but…you have to be careful; there are thousands of Chinese spies operating within America and you haven’t caught even a fraction of them.  You must not let many people find out about this, or we will be caught and purged.”

“I understand,” Kady said.  She would have to talk directly to the Manager of GNN, but that could be done easily.  If he could be convinced…well, he was in Washington and might be able to talk to the President.  She paused; there was a second option, an old friend of hers.  “It’s funny you should ask that; I have orders to ask you something.”

Wang, for once, looked surprised.  “Ask me something?”

“Yes,” Kady said.  She pushed forward gently.  “You need friends in Washington and if you help us, you will gain friends.”

“I won’t betray my country,” Wang said flatly.  “What do your masters want me to tell them?”

“Two questions,” Kady said.  She paused, long enough for him to look nervous.  “The first is simple; what’s going to happen to the Prisoners of War that were taken from Taiwan?”

Wang looked at her for a long considering moment.  “Most of them are being sent to a labour camp, I believe,” he said.  “That’s something political, Kady; the faction that wants total war wants the prisoners well away from everyone else.  A handful who have vital information will be kept in various places; I believe that one of the engineering crew from a destroyer is being made to help with research.”

Kady met his eyes.  “Which leads neatly into the second question,” she said.  She forced herself to remain calm; inside, her heart was beating like a schoolgirl with her first crush.  “We need to know how many there are and where they’re going.  Can you find that out for us?”

“I can try,” Wang said.  “Kady; why do you need to know?”

“They want to know how many there actually are,” Kady said.  “There are so many false reports that it’s hard to know who’s alive and who…remains a prisoner.  Wang, we need to know.”

“I understand,” Wang said.  He leaned forwards.  “We may need support from your people, Kady, but we won’t betray China; make sure that you make that clear.”

“The world is not fair,” Kady said.  “It is very rarely unfair in anyone’s favour.  I think that the best that anyone can hope for is that the war ends before we destroy the world.”

Chapter Twenty-Two: Gulag

Somewhere in China, China

The door burst open before Lieutenant Stephanie Tsuji could react, although she knew that there was little she could do about it if she had had a chance to react.  The routine was familiar; the guards would burst in, from time to time, and search the room.  She didn’t understand why they bothered; she had no hope at all of smuggling anything into the room, but a fork she’d tried to hide from the food they gave her.  It had been the only time they’d actually hurt her physically; one of the guards had hit her hard enough to almost blind her in one eye.

“Out of bed,” the lead guard snapped.  The guards were all almost gorillas; she had once asked one of them – in English – if they were really mountain apes from somewhere.  She was sure that China had primates somewhere around, but she really wasn't thinking very clearly.  The guards spoke no English and had almost no initiative at all; they didn’t even seem to react when she spoke to them.  If was as if some superior authority had ordered them to search the cell from time to time, and then they had just carried out the order – again, and again, and again.  “Suit.”

Their eyes watched her as she pulled on the simple orange suit the Chinese had provided for her, but she was used to that humiliation by now.  The Chinese had taken all of her clothes in the first week of her captivity, replacing them with the prisoners’ suit and a handful of female items.  The guards watched the prisoners, she was certain of that, but she had never been actually molested…or perhaps they just hadn’t been ordered to do that.  She was confident that she could have outwitted any of the guards; the problem was that there was no way to manipulate them without revealing that she spoke Mandarin…and that would have been disastrous.  They would have treated her with much more care if they knew that she could actually talk to their people.

She finished zipping up the suit and waited patiently for them to begin searching the room.  The guards surprised her; instead, they grabbed her hands, and rapidly handcuffed them, before hustling her out of the room and into the long dark corridor.  There were guards everywhere, wearing an entire set of different uniforms; she saw, for the first time since she had been moved to a private cell, other prisoners.  A large black man, clearly American, was being dragged down the corridor by four guards; she noticed in a moment of grim clarity that his head had almost been split open.  Others were being moved quickly down towards the end, with voices shouting in Mandarin, barely audible in the distance.

Her guards pushed her and she staggered on, her mind catching up with the shock of the sudden change in routine.  The other prisoners looked equally stunned, all of them were firmly secured; she tried to look for a way to snatch a weapon and realised that it would be impossible.  The guards forced her onwards, towards a cold gust of air…and she realised that they were actually being taken outside the complex for the first time in what felt like years.

She felt her heart leap; someone high above would be watching them through satellites, or perhaps even from one of the space stations, assuming that they were still active.  Some of the people predicting a war between America and China had warned that the space stations would make easy targets, but the Chinese couldn’t have stopped the Americans peering down at them from spy satellites…could they?  She caught a glimpse of the outside and cursed inwardly; it was pitch dark, with hundreds of Chinese guards outside, watching them.  Bright lights were activated, forcing the prisoners to blink and close their eyes; their guards forced them onwards, following a clearly-marked path.

“STEP OFF THE PATH AND YOU WILL BE SHOT,” a voice bellowed in English.  She had no difficulty in recognising the accent as a Chinese man who had studied in America.  They had quite an obvious accent to anyone who knew what they were listening for when they spoke.  “OBEY AND NO ONE WILL BE HURT.”

Stumbling, pushed against her guards, Stephanie staggered along the marked path.  The lights were making it hard to see and she was starting to wonder if she was hallucinating; she could have sworn that she saw a Cyberman, just for a second.  The air was echoing with shouting instructions; she was trying to understand them, despite the growing mechanical racket in the distance.  She heard, with an moment of pure agony, a helicopter flying high overhead; she missed her old craft with an intensity she had never felt before.  A dog ran up to her, held firmly by another Chinese guard, and snarled at her; she had never seen such a dog in her life.  It was a bizarre cross between a Terrier and a German Shepherd…and she was convinced that it would tear out her throat on the slightest provocation.  It sniffed her, paying particular attention to her crotch, and then ran on to the next prisoner.

“Funny dog,” one of her guards remarked in Mandarin.  Stephanie gritted her teeth and pretended not to understand.  “He knows what he wants, eh?”

“Lucky dog,” the second guard said.  He laughed in a manner calculated to worry her; it was almost a laughing leer.  “Better move now before someone notices.”

A blaze of lights formed into the shape of an aircraft, a large transport aircraft, painted a brilliant silver.  Stephanie didn’t have time to admire it as the guards hustled her up the ramp and into the rear of the craft, into a suddenly dim compartment.  Her eyes were hurting from the lights; she was almost relieved, even when a new guard grabbed her wrists and inspected the bracelet they had given her when she had been captured.  Whatever else, she had been ordered to keep the bracelet on…or else.

“Lieutenant Stephanie Tsuji, of Canada,” the guard sneered, in English.  His hand took a moment to wander over her behind; she realised in a moment of flickering horror that he was a sadist.  “Now…now only a prisoner of the state, now someone who will obey orders or suffer.”

Her guards said nothing.  The newcomer clearly outranked them.  “Move her to that bench there,” the guard ordered them, switching back to Mandarin.  He spoke English better than either of the guards.  “Secure her and check her, then report to the personal pool.”

Stephanie had no difficultly in recognising the expressions on her guards’ faces; they were just as disgusted by the officer as she was, although for different reasons.  She was worried about what he might do to her while she was in his power; they were angry at him for looking down on them.  Oddly, even as the guards escorted her to a bench and firmly secured her hands to the railing, she felt a moment of kinship.  It faded quickly; one of the guards waved to her as they strolled off down the ramp and out of her life, while two other guards escorted the next prisoner, the black American.  The officer went through almost the same routine with him; his guards secured him next to Stephanie and left as well.

Stephanie looked up at him.  He had once been handsome, before the Chinese had smashed part of his face; it looked as if he had been shot, but had somehow survived.  His eye – the only remaining one – seemed kind, but dazed; the glares he directed at their captors suggested that he wanted to fight.  He opened his mouth, perhaps to talk to her, and the officer shouted at him to be quiet as the rest of the plane filled up with prisoners.  There seemed to be no end to the prisoners…

The ramp slammed shut.  The officer had departed long ago, leaving them alone in the cargo hold as the aircraft powered up; she could feel the thrumming passing through it as it moved away, heading towards some unknown destination.  There was a moment’s pause…and then it hurled itself into the sky; she cursed as she realised that the aircraft was overloaded, staggering into the sky.  They would be very lucky if the aircraft made it to their destination, wherever it was, in one piece.

The American was looking at her.  “What’s your name?”  He asked.  It came out in a slurring, almost drunken, tone; the damage to his face had clearly hurt his ability to talk.  “I’m Jay Rawlings.”

“Stephanie,” Stephanie said.  She attempted to shake hands with him as best as she could; both of them had their hands firmly secured.  “How did you end up here?”

Rawlings grinned toothily.  His teeth had been badly smashed; he really needed a proper dentist.  “I fly one of the Hawkeyes off the Ford and some bastard manages to put a missile into the radar dome,” he said.  “Five minutes later, we’re thinking how lucky we are to be alive…and then they pick us up and send us to the dump.”

Stephanie found herself smiling at him.  Some of the other prisoners were talking now, glad of the chance to actually talk to their fellow countrymen and women.  Most of them were Americans, but others were British, even French and Australian.  There were no other Canucks in the aircraft; she still felt lonely.  The others had all broadly similar stories; they were all enlisted men or junior officers and they had been interrogated by the Chinese at length.

“They thought I knew the inner workings of the radar,” Rawlings proclaimed, to general amusement.  Stephanie had enjoyed flying the helicopter, but she knew very little about how some of the classified equipment went together; that was well above her pay grade.  “They kept hitting me to make me tell them things, so I told them that they were being idiots and that was when they really started in on me.”

An Englishman looked up.  “All of this is a violation of the Geneva Convention,” he said.  There was a roar of bitter laugher; the Geneva Convention had been a joke since the day it had been written.  “Does anyone know anything about the remainder of the world?”

“They claimed that the Russians had invaded Europe,” Stephanie said grimly.  There was a moment of silence.  “They have to be lying, right?”

Rawlings smiled, trying to keep their sprits up.  “I know, man,” he said.  “They lost badly in the second battle and now there’s an invasion fleet off the coastline, so they’re moving us before our people recapture us.  You never know; that might be true.”

Stephanie privately doubted it.  She had seen too much of the inner workings of Canada’s so-called defence force to think that there would be a rescue attempt…and America had taken a beating in the battle.  She didn’t think that the Chinese were telling the truth when they had claimed to sink all six carriers, but she knew that any navy that had had it’s arse handed to it like that would be reluctant to risk a repeat experience.  She kept her mouth shut; the prisoners needed hope.

“Maybe it is,” she said.  “How did you get in here anyway?”

“Oh, I’m dangerous,” Rawlings said.  “I used to run with the Lords; the roughest, toughest band of bastards on the streets of Portland.  One day, the police napped me and offered me a choice between jail or the army, or saying that I was very sorry and that I wouldn’t do it again.”  He paused.  “Of course, had I known that there was going to be a war, I would have probably said sorry.”

Stephanie blinked at him.  “I thought that you said you were with the navy,” someone said.  “Or was that a joke?”

“Merely an attempt to add a convincing detail or two to an otherwise unconvincing and boring story,” Rawlings said.  He seemed to become grim for a moment.  “Does anyone know what’s happened to us?”

There was a long silence.  Two of the American pilots were trying to calculate how far they were flying, but it seemed impossible; the flight just droned on and on.  Stephanie, despite herself, felt tired and yawned; some of the other prisoners were already asleep, despite their dangerous situation.  Had she been a character in a novel, aided by a sympathetic writer, she would have been able to last out the flight without problems, but as it was…she leaned against Rawlings and closed her eyes.

She was awakened by him rubbing his shoulder against her.  “We’re about to land,” he whispered.  The others were trying to sit up, forgetting that they were still cuffed; some of them had cramp from their positions.  Stephanie felt the aircraft as it moved through the sky and understood; they were indeed coming in to land.  Moments later, there was a bump and the aircraft touched down, heading down a runway.

“Well, we’re here,” one of the pilot officers said.  He was unable to keep some nervousness out of his voice.  “Good luck, folks.”

There was a muttered chorus of agreement as the aircraft taxied to a halt.  Stephanie wanted to say something reassuring, but the truth was that she knew nothing that could be reassuring, not…wherever they were.  The Pact was vast, with three large countries comprising a large part of the world; they could be anywhere.  They might not be in China, but India, or Russia, or…they could be anywhere.  The only thing she was even remotely sure of was that the Chinese didn’t want to simply kill them, or they could just have killed them back in the barracks.  The hatch opened, sending a wave of cold air into the aircraft; she winced as she realised that her outfit was little protection against the cold.

A line of guards entered, selected a prisoner, and uncuffed him from the railing.  Before he could say anything, they pushed him towards the hatch and then uncuffed a second prisoner, than a third.  A sailor from New Zealand fell to the ground, unable to save himself with his hands bound; the guards laughed and exchanged comments in a language that Stephanie didn’t recognise.  She was surprised, even as she kept her head down; she didn’t want them to notice her until she knew what was going on.  The prisoners, one by one, were pushed out of the plane; the ones that fell assisted to their feet by the guards.  Stephanie felt them unlocking her; as she walked out, she saw…

A scene of desolation, as far as the eye could see.  They were somewhere mountainous, in the middle of what looked like a military camp – or a prison.  She noticed that there were a handful of other camps nearby, with other prisoners in them; she tried to see them, but the guards grabbed her and pushed her towards a forming line of prisoners.  Rawlings, behind her, had his injuries examined by the guards, who made rude comments before pushing him to join Stephanie.

“Good afternoon,” a voice said, in faintly-accented English.  She looked at the speaker and stared; that wasn't a Han Chinese, but something different.  He wore a standard green uniform, marked with Communist markings, but the man wasn’t a Han Chinese.  She studied him carefully, trying to place him; his appearance rang a bell somewhere, but what?  “Welcome to the camp; I trust that it meets with your approval?”

He laughed at his own joke.  “This is Detention Camp Fifty-Seven, in your people’s language,” he said.  Stephanie hated him already, whatever he really was; he was making jokes at the expense of prisoners who were very far from their homes.  “You are literally thousands of kilometres from any possible help, or anyone who will help you; many of the people in this region don’t like Americans.  Should you fall into their hands…we will try to rescue you, but will we succeed?”

He spent a moment looking up and down the line of prisoners.  Stephanie tried to count them and realised that there were hundred of prisoners, all from the battle, gathered together in the camp.  She wondered, just for a moment, who was in the other camps; how many prisoners had they taken, anyway?

“You will be kept here until there is a satisfactory solution to the current unpleasantness,” the man continued.  “Most of you will be required to work for your food here, particularly the young and strong men.  The rules are very simple; obey every order given to you and you will not be hurt.  Disobedient people will be beaten or otherwise punished; please do not attempt to disobey. You will appoint a representative from each of the barracks to hear specific orders from us; that person will get instructions for the rest of you.  Outside working hours, what you do is not our problem.”

He paused.  “Guards, take them to their barracks,” he ordered.  “Move!”

Stephanie felt strong hands grab her and push her towards a large building, surrounded by barbed wire.  The gate in the fence opened as she was forced closer; there was a moment of pressure on her arms, and then the handcuffs came off and she was forced into the gate.  She rubbed her hands as two more prisoners were forced forwards, and then she stepped into the barracks.  She realised at once that it wasn't an improvement; it was like something out of Stalin’s Russia.  Bunk beds and a small amount of food for each of them, men and women placed in the same building…

She was relieved, somehow, to see Rawlings.

“You will choose a representative,” a Chinese voice ordered, through a hidden speaker.  “That person is to present himself at the gates in one hour.”

“Tag,” an Englishman said, pointing at Rawlings.  Stephanie understood the choice; a beaten man might not be pushed so hard by the Chinese.  “You’re it.”

“Thanks for nothing,” Rawlings snapped.  He looked at the bunks for a long moment.  “Yes, It sure beats Blackpool, right?”

Stephanie giggled.

Chapter Twenty-Three: Rescue Mission

Marseille, France

Marseille had once been the crime capital of France.

Eugene Lockwood carefully stepped through the barricade and walked down the street, noticing how his four escorts looked carefully around them.  Marseille’s large immigrant population had joined in the rioting with great pleasure, but they hadn’t, by and large, touched the crime quarter of the city; not even the police went into the criminal area unless they had heavy back-up.  There were thousands of people on the streets, some of him had probably come to flee the unrest; he wondered how many of them were actually criminals.  Marseille had also been unlucky enough to be the prime target for missiles from Algeria; he’d watched an interception as they had walked down from their apartment.  No one had seemed to care.

A girl called a question to him in French; Lockwood shook his head and walked onwards, feeling more threatened than he had been in Somalia.  The Somalia fighters had been much the same; if the westerners had plenty of weapons and looked alert, they left them in peace, but if they looked weak…he remembered some of the videos and shuddered at the memory.  The girl shouted something obscene after him, and then continued plying her trade elsewhere; Lockwood had no doubt that someone would take her up on it.  She had been quite pretty, in a way.

“They don’t have any other form of employment,” his guide said.  The bald Frenchman looked a curious mixture of apologetic and defiant.  The city had once been called France’s arsehole, although it didn’t look particularly terrible, merely…not exactly under the control of the government.  It was way too useful to have all of the possible operatives in France in one place…and not just for tax purposes.  Some of the people in the region were smugglers, others were hired guns and bodyguards, and still others were people hanging around, looking for trouble.  “They have to lower themselves to survive.”

“This is not your normal place, is it?”  Lockwood asked.  Some of the young men around looked at the team, saw professional soldiers, and decided not to risk an encounter with them; the entire team was armed to the teeth.  Technically speaking, that was illegal, but it would have been easier to lock up the unarmed population of the criminal area; everyone was packing heat.  “Don’t you come here often?”

“No, as it happens,” the Frenchman said.  He was from Paris and had a low opinion of the southern cities.  “This is not where I would prefer to come on my honeymoon.”

Lockwood refused to comment as they entered a set of smaller alleyways.  It was delightfully multicultural, with faces and skin colours from all over the world, from Arabs to Chinese to…it dawned on him that the man they were coming to see might have had something to do with that…and he forced the thought down back into the inner recesses of his mind.  Everyone with criminal ambitions did business in the city; he had been briefed that there were several Americans on a mission to hire soldiers for operations in Central America…and he was to have nothing to do with them at all.

“I assume that you would prefer to remain outside,” Lockwood said, as they passed a set of older whores, their faces tainted with quiet desperation.  One of them looked Algerian, perhaps someone who had run away from home, or perhaps someone who had been kidnapped in Algeria and shipped over for the sex trade.  “You don’t have to come in at all.”

“I know my duty,” the Frenchman said.  “I’ll just keep my mouth shut.”

The entrance to the small watering hole was unmarked, perhaps on the entirely reasonable theory that whoever needed to enter would know where it was.  The bouncer inside took one look at them and barred their way; Lockwood held up an envelope stuffed with cash and he allowed them to pass, examining the cash with interest.  The second door looked strong enough to deter a tank from crashing through; it was opened by a surly looking woman with a very low-cut dress and a cigarette drooping in her mouth, who gave him a thin smile.

“Not on your life,” Lockwood muttered.  He glanced around the smoky bar; there was enough tobacco smoke in the air to take years off his life.  There were only a handful of patrons, talking together in the dim light…and the man they were looking for was sitting on his own, studying a game of solitaire with apparent interest.  Lockwood glanced back at his team.  “Take a table and wait.”

The Frenchman looked up as Lockwood took the seat opposite him.  He was shorter than Lockwood had expected, and he looked as if he had really let himself go, but Lockwood’s experienced eye could pick up traces of professional training and real, although hidden, strength.  He was smoking a single thin cigarette and wore a black beret over short dark hair.  In short, he was the typical Frenchman; Lockwood distrusted him on sight.

“You must be the man they said was coming to see me,” the man said.  He spoke perfect English.  “An American, coming into my bar.”

Lockwood ignored the jibe.  “Dominique Dubois, I presume?  Captain Dominique Dubois?”

“I assume that by the fact I was asked to come here, the Government decided that they had need of my services,” Dubois said.  “That sissy from Paris probably told you everything there was about me, but…why do they want me to work with Americans?”

Lockwood lifted an eyebrow.  “Don’t you want to work with Americans?”

“I had a nice little thing going on in Africa and Americans ruined it,” Dubois informed him.  His voice was brimming with indignation.  “Your people just kept poking their noses in where they weren’t wanted.”

“Be that as it may, we have a…task that requires your assistance,” Lockwood said.  “We need you to…”

Dubois leered at him.  “Something the mighty Americans cannot do themselves?”

“No,” Lockwood admitted.  “Paris has ordered you to cooperate with us and we are prepared to…”

“Paris,” Dubois said, with a sneer.  “Why must anyone fear such a weak government?  First we had those who let you Yanks walk all over us, then we had the ones who cuddled up to the Boche, then we had those who invited hundred of raggedly-assed bastards from Palestine to come join their brothers, and now we have someone who looked like those fuckers who were talking about burning us all out.”

“And hit the bottom of the Mediterranean in reinforced concrete overshoes,” Lockwood snapped.  “If you feel so strongly, why did you join the army in the first place?”

“It was considered important by the Party,” Dubois said.  Listening to him, somehow Lockwood was sure that it was not the Communist Party, the Socialist Party, or any of the other left-wing groups.  The National Front might have split, just in time to prevent it from winning a victory, but it had plenty of nasty members.  Had it really intended to infiltrate the army?  “You spend a few years working in Africa, or making nice with people who really should be gunned down in their vast numbers, and see how much you smile.”

“And yet you still work for Paris,” Lockwood observed.  “Just what are you?”

“A freelancer with some ties to the government,” Dubois snapped.  His face had purpled alarmingly.  “Everyone in my line of work needs them, Yank; you want to operate such an operation, you get the government’s permission!”

“Your government wants you to cooperate,” Lockwood said.  “We are also prepared to sweeten the pot, to the tune of a billion dollars in hard case and insurance if anything goes wrong.”

Dubois lifted his eyebrows.  “A billion dollars?”

“Yes,” Lockwood said.  Dubois probably wouldn’t see anything like that much; only major drug smuggling rings and arms traders made so much, and that carried more risk than anything else.  They might be caught outside the city and then they would be in serious trouble.  “There are other inducements, of course; if we manage the mission, we can offer you a great deal more than you could get elsewhere.”

“The United States Government is offering that,” Dubois said.  “How do I know that you won’t just cheat me?”

Lockwood smiled.  “We will deposit the money in a Swiss bank, if you would like,” he said.  “We are also prepared to pay a smaller consultancy fee; if you decide not to take on the main mission, we will pay you in exchange for advice, should the advice prove accurate.”

“And, if not, one of your shooters behind you will shoot me, I take it,” Dubois said.  He leered cheerfully at Lockwood, shifting his cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other.  “Everyone in this room is in my employ, just in case you were wondering.”

“Paris said as much,” Lockwood said.  “Tell me, how come you don’t get noticed by the Pact authorities?”

“Money in the right hands,” Dubois said frankly.  “My dear rich Yank; if you knew who to bribe, and how much to offer them, you could pay them to end the war.  For all of Russia’s recent successes in the field of selling people oil, they have a long history of not paying some people and making vast enemies of others.  The same goes for almost everywhere in the world; there is always someone who can be bribed and he will smooth your path.”

He grinned, an unpleasant expression.  “It helps that the Pact has a long history of one hand not telling the other what it’s doing,” he said.  “While one hand is jerking off, the other is rubbing the back of its head.  If done properly, we can get almost anywhere within the Pact, as long as the central authorities don’t noticed.”  His grin widened.  “So, where are we going and why?”

Lockwood stared at him.  “How do you know that we want a route into the Pact?”

“You’re new at this game, aren’t you?”  Dubois asked dryly.  “What are you?  Rangers?  SEALS?  CIA?”

“I used to be Airborne,” Lockwood said flatly, his voice daring Dubois to make an issue of it.  Truthfully, he rather missed the service, not least because it had been the Airborne soldiers who had taken Havana and ended the Cuban side of the war.  “It was decided that my services could be dispensed with…”

“Translation, they decided that you would be more useful in covert operations, dummied up some charges, officially threw you out of the service and unofficially put you in a secret unit,” Dubois said.  “Your people have opened up a whole can of whoop-ass in the Caribbean, right?  That’s how you Yanks say it, eh?”

He tossed his cigarette away.  “So, what do you want me to do?”

Lockwood studied him for a long moment.  “We have something of a problem,” he said.  “There are several hundred prisoners in Chinese hands…and we want to get them out.”

Dubois stared at him.  “And they call me crazy,” he said.  “Tell me; did you bother to give Paris any idea of just what you fucking had in mind when you wanted to talk to me?”

“According to Paris,” Lockwood said calmly, “you have access as far as Afghanistan, Kazakhstan and even northern China.  Were we, perhaps, misinformed?”

“Paris has always considered me expendable,” Dubois commented.  He studied Lockwood for a long moment.  “Where exactly are we going?”

“That's undetermined as yet,” Lockwood said.  “We have some reason to believe that some of the prisoners are being moved deeper into China, but we are still waiting for the really essential data.”

“Fuck,” Dubois said.  “You don’t think small, I’ll give you that.”  He looked down at the stained table.  “I need a drink and a map; one moment.”

He waved to the barmaid, a woman old enough to be his mother, and she produced a bottle of something unmarked, but smelling foul.  Lockwood sniffed it, couldn’t place the smell, and decided to pass on it.  Dubois ordered the woman to find a map and they waited, while she found a crumpled map, old enough to show the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.

“This will have to do,” Dubois said, in-between gulps from his glass.  His moustache was starting to be stained by the strange liquid.  “Watch…”

His hands traced over the map.  “The Russians have some people who can be bribed in Georgia and Azerbaijan,” he said.  “They’re using them to support their supply lines into Iran, so they won’t want to risk a major encounter with the locals if they can avoid it, but you’re going to piss off each and every last Russian or Chinese, so we can’t count on them not deciding to become involved.  Turkey…is something of an enigma; they have some places that might help us, but the Russians are far too close to them for comfort.”

He looked at Lockwood for a moment.  “And then you’re in the badlands,” he continued softly.  “There are hundreds of warlords in Kazakhstan, some of them quite powerful, others almost as weak as the previous government of France, and the Russians have a great deal of influence there.  At the same time, they’re just as keen as the Russians on taking bribes, so unless the Russians have a massive force moving into the region, they are likely to accept the money and let us go.”

Lockwood frowned.  “What’s to stop them taking the money and then betraying us?”

“You may not understand the region very well,” Dubois said.  “The central government, such as it is, is very – very – weak.  They’re terrified of the Russians and more terrified of their locals, either radical Muslims or tribesmen or…let’s just say that everyone wouldn’t be so stupid as to abandon any hope of outside funds.  If one of them betrays us at anything less than a Russian armoured division, no one else will ever try to bribe them again, and their ability to purchase power and influence will vanish.”

He snorted.  “It’s rather like Afghanistan was, before you lot took over,” he said.  “Any group that becomes too powerful will be set upon by everyone else; the Russians have tried, from time to time, to set up someone as Chief Bastard and failed.  Any group that gets too weak will be absorbed into another group, often through marriage or something uniquely medieval.  It’s a strange place, where modern science such as GPS impacts with tribesmen and bad plumbing.”

Lockwood shook his head.  “I see,” he said.  “How many contacts do you have there?”

“Plenty,” Dubois said.  “We will have some help, although we will have to spread the bribes around and my people will have to spend money like water.  You’re paying for that, by the way; I’m not wasting any of my cash on this CIA stunt.”

“Understood,” Lockwood said.  “If this works, almost any price is acceptable; if this fails…”

“We’ll all be dead,” Dubois snapped.  He tapped the map with one stained finger.  “We may or may not need to use several bases in Kazakhstan, but where exactly in China do you want to go?  There is no way that we can get across all of China without being spotted, and I assume that even the Americans cannot get a fighter jet force to escort us, so if we are noticed, we are dead.  Where are we going?”

“We don’t know yet,” Lockwood said.  “How many aircraft would we need?”

“I have no idea,” Dubois said.  “Look, Yank, it’s quite simple; I smuggle arms for a living and do some hired gun work for Paris on the side.  I can put together a fighting force from men here that could give your old unit a run for it’s money, but they would be reluctant to take on a suicide mission…and that, at the moment, is exactly what this sounds like.  The more aircraft we need, the greater the chance of arousing interest in Russia, an interest that we would be unable to bribe as it would be well away from us.  The FSB is clever; they might let us get on with it, in order to learn what we’re doing, or they might tip off the Chinese, or…”

“We can supply the fighting force,” Lockwood said.  “There will be Airborne units ready for the operation.”

Dubois stood up.  “If you have time here, I suggest that you spend it with Katrina,” he said.  He nodded towards a dark hole in the wall.  “I can have other women brought in for your shooters if you would like…”

“You haven’t answered my question,” Lockwood said.  “Will you be prepared to take this mission on for us?”

Dubois looked down at him.  “I will give you my answer,” he said.  “Find me the information we need and then I will decide.  I need to know where to go.  I need to know how many people we are expecting to pull out.  I need to know how many aircraft we will need, because I only have twenty aircraft of my own, not all of which are suitable for this type of mission.  Finally, I need to know what sort of support we can expect; is there any chance of gaining cover from American units that can help out?”

“Perhaps,” Lockwood said.  “There are ideas being discussed, but at the moment I can’t tell you anything for certain…”

“Then come back to me when you can tell me,” Dubois said.  “How can I plan when I know nothing of the situation on the ground?”

Lockwood reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope.  “Consider this a retainer,” he said.  “We need to know, as soon as possible, what you can deploy on your own…and how you intend to do it.”

“Really,” Dubois said.  He examined the envelope curiously.  “Once you get me the information I need, then we will talk again and see if we can pull this crazy idea off.  At the moment, it sounds too much like Desert One for comfort…and that didn’t work out too well, did it?”

Chapter Twenty-Four: A Message From Molobo

Warsaw, Poland

I wonder if I’m being foolish, Marya Jadwiga thought, as she stood outside a large nondescript building.  The Russians didn’t pay much attention to the area of Warsaw, but they would be delighted to get their hands on her; they knew – or someone knew – that there was a GNN reporter within Warsaw.  The reporters who had been in the city, foreign or native-born Poles, had been rounded up in the first day of the occupation; no one knew what had happened to them, apart from the fact that they had been shipped east.  Her very presence in the city was against the rules of the Russian occupation authorities…and no one wanted to risk irritating them.

Warsaw felt…wrong, even to her; the Russians had once seemed everywhere.  The attempt by the underground to rise up against the Russians had resulted in a lot of dead Poles and property damage.  The Russians had responded by redoubling their patrols, and conducting random searches, some of them accompanied by violence and rape.  It was as if they were determined to crush the Polish sprit; Marya herself had seen how most women remained in their apartments, hiding their very faces from the Russians.

But her terminal was missing.  In the weeks that had followed it’s disappearance, she had jumped and twitched at every noise, wondering if the Russians were coming back for her, or if they had merely sent one of their bands of tamed Poles around to knock her about a bit before they arrested her and shipped her east.  Weeks had turned to months and nothing had happened; no arrest, no rapid execution, nothing.  The Russians continued to feed her as if they didn’t know that she was actually a reporter; their rations were all that kept most of the city going.  There was never enough to eat…

A helicopter floated over the city, heading towards the government district; the Russians had sealed it off and occupied it with their administrators, running the city from behind barbed wire and it’s walls.  Polish prisoners had been forced to clear the rubble from the streets, although resistance within the city had been minimal; Poland had been as unprepared as anyone else for the Russian invasion.  Marya saw it now and cursed the Russians; they had used their new economic clout to force the Poles to remain almost disarmed…until they had finally walked in and taken over.  There was no longer any nonsense about how they had been invited in; no one had seen anything of Minister Molobo for weeks.  The general theory was that he had served his purpose and the Russians had disposed of him.

The Hind passed over her head and she looked down; the last thing she wanted was to be noticed.  She had done what she could to look less attractive, but the rumours about many of the Russians had proven to be true; there were a dozen women on the run from the brothels that had once serviced Warsaw, with stories about how the Russians acted.  She stepped forward quickly, wondering again if she was doing the right thing, and stepped into the building.  It creaked, just like a haunted house, as the door closed silently behind her; someone had a sense of drama.

“Come on in,” a voice called, in Polish.  She had half-expected Russian; the person who had left the note for her could have been either Polish or Russian.  “We don’t want to be noticed here if we can avoid it.”

Inside, the building was derelict, with smashed furniture and dust everywhere, broken only by footsteps in the dust, marking out paths through the building.  It looked like an old office and she wondered why it wasn't open for business, even in the wake of the Russian occupation, then laughed at herself.  There was no longer any such thing as a Polish economy.  The Russians had taken over some factories, using them to make supplies for themselves, but many businesses had simply been allowed to die.  The Russians didn’t want anyone dependent on anything, but themselves; besides, they didn’t encourage public meetings.  After the way they had broken up a housewives protest, with live ammunition, few would risk pressing the point.

She looked at the man who had greeted her.  He was wounded, badly; one arm hung limply at his side.  That, more than anything else, marked him out as a soldier; all injured had been ordered to report themselves to the Russian authorities, particularly the ones who had run afoul of bullets.  Many of them had never been seen again either; the Russians had ruthlessly purged the city of everyone who might be a threat, or be able to organise resistance.  They didn’t want a repeat of the first uprising.

“Keep your voice down,” he hissed, before she could say anything.  “The Russians have been using audio sensors recently and we lost a team that way.”

Marya took the hint and kept her mouth shut, even as he led her into another room, and then down a long flight of stairs into a grubby basement.  It stank…and she could see why, there was another hole in the floor, leading down further and into the sewers.  She looked a question at her escort and he pointed down a ladder; she tried not to use her nose as she stepped into the darkness, down a long climb and into a sewage chamber.  It was dark and eerie; the only light came from an electric lantern that someone had set up, shinning out a glowing light that allowed her to see two more men, waiting for her.

“The movement just had to take its name literally,” a voice said.  She recognised the voice; it was Jacob, a man she’d met during the Russian invasion, someone old enough to remember the last time the Russians had been evicted from Warsaw.  “After all, we’ll in the underground.”

Marya found her voice…and then almost gagged on the smell of rotting eggs.  “Are you sure that this is safe?”

“Nowhere is safe now,” Jacob said, very grimly.  “You might want to hold your nose; one of our problems is that the Russians might manage to find us just by sniffing around and seeing who stinks.”  She hoped that that was a joke.  “I have something for you.”

A small screen lit up in the darkness.  “My terminal,” she exclaimed, delighted.  The wave of relief was overwhelming.  “How did you get that?”

“I live in your building,” Jacob reminded her dryly.  “When the Russians came, I decided that it would be better for all concerned if your terminal wasn’t found by them, eh?  The Russians would have taken you and your family and done unspeakable things to them before sending them east.”

Marya found her voice.  “Jacob, what happens to those who go east?”

“We don’t know,” Jacob said.  “We have been trying to gain information, mainly though using the brothels and asking the whores to engage in pillow talk, but anyone who actually manages to get close to a senior FSB officer goes into their compound and we cannot talk to them.  The Russians keep the Poles they keep inside firmly segregated from the rest of their people…and we have no way of getting inside.  We’ve tried, several times; we were lucky that the Russians shot one of them instead of trying to take him alive…

“Except we might have a lead,” he said, his voice becoming grim.  “Can you use this thing down here?”

Marya nodded, and then snorted inwardly.  “Perhaps,” she said.  The darkness was lightening slightly as her eyes became used to it.  “Can you pass it over here?”

“Crazy Al was trying to hack it,” Jacob said, as he passed the terminal to Marya.  “It wouldn’t open for him.”

Marya placed her fingers on the terminal, allowing its sensors to read her fingerprints.  “It’s designed to work only for me,” she said.  “There was a public disaster a while back when there was a reporter in Pakistan, reporting on what was happening there, and the Indians caught him with proof that he was recording and reporting what he had seen.  The Indians executed him for espionage.  Now, let’s see…”

The terminal wasn't designed to serve as a military unit; it would have powered down and remained powered down unless someone activated it.  Her fingers pressed it slightly and opened up the inner system, attempting to access a signal from a satellite.  If they could get a signal so far down, which she privately doubted, she could get an update on what was going on in the rest of the world; Russian propaganda claimed that Britain had fallen and that America was leaving the war.

“Only a very weak signal,” she said, after a moment.  “We’ll have to go higher in the building.”

“Dangerous,” the man who had met her said.  “The Russians believe that the building is completely empty.  If they search the building, they’ll find the links to the sewers and know where we are.”

Marya blinked.  “Can’t we take this somewhere where we can get a real signal?”

“Perhaps, but that would be tricky,” Jacob said.  His face was briefly illuminated by the electric light.  “There are miles upon miles of sewers, but the Russians can probably get plans, even if they don’t have a few people who remember it from the days the system was actually built.  Answer me a question; how much are you prepared to do to ensure a free Poland?”

Marya considered the question.  “I won’t do anything to put my sister and her children at risk,” she said.  “I think…”

“They’re already at risk,” another man growled, in the darkness.  “I told you that this was a mistake.”

“Shut up,” Jacob said.  “Marya, are you prepared to conduct the most dangerous interview of your career?”

“I’ve hardly had a career yet,” Marya said.  She remembered Kady and wondered what her old friend was doing, somewhere in China.  Had the Chinese arrested her, or were they trying to use her for their own purposes?  “Who do you want me to interview?”

“Our old friend, Minister Molobo,” Jacob said.  He paused.  “Interested?”

Marya felt her mouth open.  No words emerged.  “He’s had something of a change of heart,” her unknown opponent growled from the dark.  “Apparently, the Russians lied to him and he wants some revenge, but the Russians are threatening to kill him if he tries anything stupid.  He wants to hide from them and our price for getting him out of the city is a broadcast interview.”

Marya tried to see his face in the darkness and failed.  “Are you sure he’s not lying to you?”

“Oh, of course not,” Jacob said.  “That’s what makes this so dangerous.  Interested?”

“Yes,” Marya said.  “I am interested beyond my ability to say.”

The journey through the sewers took on the aspect of nightmare, even if there were three men with her, escorting her.  The looming darkness washed at them, broken occasionally by chinks of light caused by cracks in the system, or flickering electric lights intended for the maintenance staff.  She gathered, from what Jacob said, that the maintenance staff had been rounded up by the Russians as well; the system itself was falling into disuse, despite the thousands of people who depended upon it.

“There’ll be a disease outbreak soon,” Jacob predicted, as they passed through a heaving pumping station.  “There are places where there is hardly any fresh water at all; the Russians, at least, see to keeping that working, if badly.  “You may not have noticed, but almost every doctor and nurse has either been chained to the hospital or shipped out somewhere, perhaps even east.  Rumour has it that the Russians are using them to give medical care to their own people on the battlefield; medical supplies are running out.”

Marya closed her eyes.  “Are they trying to kill us all?”

“It’s possible,” Jacob said.  “It’s equally possible that they just don’t care, or that they’re mining us for people and specialities they need.  Perhaps Molobo can shed some light on it.”

Something clicked in Marya’s mind.  “That’s why you want the interview,” she said.  “You want to make it impossible for him to go back to the Russians.”

“Yes,” Jacob said.  They had reached a ladder, climbing away into the darkness.  “Stay here.”

Jacob passed the light to one of the other men and scrambled up the ladder.  “All clear,” he said, after a moment.  Marya followed him up and emerged in the middle of a pit in the ground, in a vast room.  It took her a moment to realise that she was sitting in the middle of an empty swimming pool; the water had been drained away by the Russians, or perhaps the Polish owners trying to prevent the Russians from using the pool.  She giggled suddenly as it struck her just how odd they had to look.

“Quiet,” Jacob snapped.  “Believe me, we really don’t have much time.”

The owners of the swimming pool had created a small line of offices for their people to work.  One of them had been opened by looters and searched; it now held an astonishingly fat man and two guards, both carrying AK-47s.  She prayed, as she had never prayed before, that the Russians had not just employed Molobo to catch them all; how could he had slipped away without them knowing about it?  Did they no longer feel the need to play nice with the Poles?

“This is the person who will record your statement,” Jacob said, coldly.  It dawned on Marya that Jacob and Molobo knew each other; in typical Polish fashion, the underground and the government had known perfectly well how to get in touch with each other for quite some time.  The Russians had clearly known nothing about it, or they would have scooped up Jacob and his people with ease.  “Confine your statement to the facts and only the facts.”

Marya placed the terminal on the desk and turned it to face Molobo.  The Polish traitor looked terrible; she realised now that he had lost weight, but had done it in such a way as to leave flaps and folds of flesh on his body.  A scar was prominent along one cheek; she wondered how that scar had been caused.  Perhaps a Russian, sick of the traitor, had attempted to punish him for some imagined slight.

“You may begin,” she said, after a moment.  The terminal had picked up a microburst of compressed information from the satellite above; she would review it later.  “Speak now or forever hold your tongue.”

Molobo’s voice was very weak.  “My people, I am Prime Minister Molobo, of Poland,” he said.  Marya suppressed the urge to laugh and she saw that Jacob was having similar problems.  “I…until recently, I have been urging you to remain calm and not to attempt to confront the Russian…police force that has arrived in Poland.  I have been lied to by the Russians and we all have paid the price, all of us.”

His voice started to stutter.  “The Russians contacted me during the run-up to the war and presented me with convincing evidence that the Germans intended to provoke a major conflict with the Russians, one that would devastate Poland.  I attempted to warn the Prime Minister and the other members of the government about the threat, but they refused to believe me; the events in the Ukraine had them convinced that the Germans didn’t intend to pose a threat.  When the Germans pushed us into a major deployment along the frontier, they…I was told that they intended to start a war.”

Marya stared at him.  Did he expect anyone to believe that crap?  “The Germans were not intending to start a war, but the Russians intended to start one,” Molobo continued.  Sweat was running down his face.  “The deployment led rapidly to the defeat of our forces and the retreat of the European force positioned in Poland, while the Russians were quick to take advantage of our disarray to press into our rear and occupy large parts of Poland.  They told me that their presence would only be temporary…and I believed them.  My fault; I assumed command of the government and ordered a temporary stand-down…and I delivered Poland into their hands.”

He tried to speak with real confidence and failed.  “I…made a mistake, and I have cost my nation dear,” he concluded.  “Thousands of us have been shipped east to concentration camps, thousands more have been ordered to assist with the Russian plans, to march onwards until they reach Paris.  I…I took the only decision I could, to leave the Russians without my services as a talking head for them, and to leave Warsaw before the Russians could catch me and put me back in my cage.  I call upon all loyal sons of Poland to join the underground, and prepare for the day when we will once again have the yoke of Russia lifted from our backs.”

He stood up.  “There,” he said, to Jacob.  “Was that good enough?”

“Do you believe that anyone will really believe that?”  Marya asked, as she secured the terminal.  “You bought your life at the cost of the country.”

“Exactly,” Jacob said.  He drew his pistol.  “Molobo, traitor to Poland, I sentence you to death.”  He cocked the pistol.  “Do you have any last words?”

Molobo’s mouth seemed to freeze.  “But you promised…”

“A promise made to a man who betrayed his country,” Jacob said.  His voice was suddenly very harsh.  “Burn in hell.”

He fired, once.  The shot was louder than Marya had expected.  “We have to move,” Jacob said.  “It won’t be long before the Russians respond, and then where will we be?”

“Dead,” Marya said.  She held the terminal as they ran back towards the entrance to the sewers.  “What happens now?”

“You go back to your sister and wait for us to get in touch,” Jacob said.  “Leave the terminal; you really don’t want to be caught with it, understand?”

Marya felt oddly subdued.  “I understand,” she said.  “Just take care of it, ok?”

Chapter Twenty-Five: Invasion Down Under, Take One

Combat Zone, Near North Australia

“We have received our instructions from the Australian Coast Guard,” the Captain said, as Commodore Qiu Xiaoshuai entered the bridge.  “They are ordering us to hold position outside their territorial waters and wait for morning.  They told us that if we entered their waters without being searched, we would be fired upon without further warning.”

Commodore Qiu shrugged.  The Captain, who had obviously been bracing himself for a burst of high-ranking fury, looked relieved; Captains and officers had been broken by Commodore Qiu before in the desperate quest to get the ships ready to leave on time.  There hadn’t been much time; they had had only a few opportunities to get the fleet to where it was required without tipping off the Australians by a major change in routine…and that could have ruined everything.

“Good,” he said.  “Let’s be good little Japanese sailors and do what we’re told, understand?”

He smiled thinly to himself as the Captain retreated.  Truthfully, he would have been surprised – and suspicious – if the Australians had allowed them to sail right up to their coast without asking a few pointed questions, if not insisting on searching the ship before letting it anywhere near Australia.  After what had happened to Iceland, no nation in the world would let a small fleet of container ships land without searching them, even a fleet that supposedly belonged to Japan.  The Russians might have moved up a small army and used it to take over an entire country, but by the very nature of it, it was a trick that only worked once…

…And there was no way that his ships could pass an inspection.  They might have looked innocent from the air, a group of Japanese ships bringing increasingly unwanted goods to Australia, but if the Australians searched them, they would find the aircraft and the supplies…and then all hell would break loose.  There were at least two Australian destroyers in the vicinity, only a few kilometres from his force; they would engage and perhaps destroy all nine of his ships if they suspected anything was wrong, before it was too late.  Australia might be militarily weak, but it was a big target and its soldiers had a reputation for being tough; the more of them that were caught by surprise, the better.  Commodore Qiu had been involved with the fighting in Indonesia and Taiwan; he knew that the more surprised the enemy were, the easier the victory.  Australia…was simply too large to knock out with one punch.

“Get me the update from Darwin,” he snapped at an intelligence officer.  “Is it really as bad as it seems?”

There was a pause.  “Yes, Commodore,” the unlucky officer said.  He seemed prepared, too, for a blast of fury.  “The Australians scooped up many of the commando and terrorist cells we created.”

Commodore Qiu scowled.  The plan hadn’t depended on chaos – that trick, too, would only work once and everyone knew it now – but it would have been nice to have caused some chaos for the Australians.  The westerners had been foolish enough to create societies where people could move around freely, even people with very bad intentions; the Poles and the other Europeans had suffered badly because of that little flaw in their security.  The Australians, clearly, had determined otherwise; they had wiped out most of the cells that would have taken direct action against their targets.  Decapitating the Australian Government was clearly no longer an option.

“Well, until we actually overrun Canberra or Melbourne,” he muttered.  The Australians had dispersed part of their government, just like China and the other states involved in the war, just to prevent a lucky hit exterminating them.  They would have several hours until first light, but there was little time to actually wait; they had to get their units into position before the Australians actually insisted on examining his ships.  “Show me a tactical display.”

The officer hit a button and the display came to life.  Its presence would be frankly damning – along with almost everything else on the ship – if it was seen; it was very clearly military-grade…and light years beyond anything an innocent merchant ship would need.  Commodore Qiu had encountered some merchant ships with very sophisticated gear, but a device that could gather and display information that would only be useful in a tactical situation was something suspicious.  His lips twitched; if the Australians got that close, he might as well offer to surrender.  They would have lost.

“Good,” he said softly. There were seven jet fighters patrolling near Darwin, three of them Eurofighters, the remainder Joint Strike Fighters; there had been a political argument over the Joint Strike Fighter, as Commodore Qiu recalled.  An argument that had prevented the Allies from standardising everything, although the Pact had been far from perfect in that regard itself.  There had been a massive program to achieve standardisation, but five years hadn’t been long enough to ensure complete interoperability.  It didn’t matter; one way or another, the war was likely to end before it became an issue.  “I believe, Captain, that we can proceed with the launch of the first strike.”

“Aye, Commodore,” the Captain said.  He turned to his crew.  “Turn us into the wind and prepare the aircraft for immediate launch.”

***
Cheng Xingming was nervous, despite literally years of experience at flying the tiny microlight aircraft.  He had been lucky enough to be born into a rich family, one that had allowed him the time and money to spend time developing a real hobby, in his case the new western craze of microlight aircraft.  He had joined a club in China, paid the bribes that were required for anyone who wanted to engage in such a hobby without drawing unwanted attention from the security services, and had flown and flown to his heart’s content…until he had almost rammed a Chinese jet fighter.  It had been an accident, although he had wet himself at the time; the aircraft had just appeared right out of nowhere and almost killed him.

He had thought, then, that the security services were going to finish the job, but instead the commander of the nearby air base had wanted to talk to him.  The jet fighter hadn’t known that he was there until it was too late…because the microlights the pilots had built were almost completely stealthy.  They did have a very faint radar signature, but it was smaller than a flock of birds…and would be almost certainly edited out by any radar computer hunting for possible targets.  The then-commander, the man who was a distant relation of the Commodore on the ships, had invited Cheng to sign up with the People’s Liberation Army Air Force…or else.  Wisely, Cheng and his team had found themselves the 1st Microlight Unit…and charged with the task of developing a military application for the microlights.  Once they had gotten over the dismay at the loss of their independence, they had enjoyed themselves; their backer was more than willing to provide them with money and resources, provided that they developed something useful.

Cheng nodded to the deck crew, who began the launch sequence, launching the microlight into the air.  They had indeed found something useful; the microlight aircraft that Cheng and his twenty fellows flew were almost completely radar invisible…and carried a small amount of bombs and rockets for their targets.  In the darkness, they would be hidden…and even in daylight, who would consider them a threat?  Best of all, if the Australians started launching rockets and jet fighters out to do battle with every possible radar contact that could be a microlight, they would be wasting expensive missiles on flocks of birds or even temperature waves in the air.  They couldn’t hope to survive an encounter with a jet fighter – the wake of the jet’s passing would shatter their microlights, or toss them out of the sky, or ignite the fragile wings – but they wouldn’t have to, they hoped.  

Time passed, very slowly; Cheng was used to flights that lasted longer than anyone would expect.  They had chosen a course that would take them well away from the Australian ships patrolling their waters and watching for submarines, let alone the CAP aircraft, all of which added additional time to their journey.  They kept in contact with the ships through microburst transmissions, using a GPS tracker to ensure that they found their targets.  Australia was blacked out, he realised, as they closed in on Darwin and their other targets.  There were no streetlights, or even car headlights; that would make it harder for the enemy to see them, even in the darkness.  It was only an hour until dawn…and by then, they had to get their hits in and get out before they were seen.  

The microlights had gone in on different courses.  One problem they had encountered was that while the Chinese Navy had plenty of missiles and bombs that could take out an enemy ship, many of them were larger than the microlights could carry, while others would have set off the radars anyway.  Cheng knew that they had been lucky that that flaw had been found during the drills; their stealth would have been wasted if they had carried missiles that would have set off the alarm.  Seven microlights had been assigned to Darwin itself, each one with particular orders and targets; if they couldn’t take out the ships…they would take out their supporting units.

He felt, just for a second, awesomely lonely.  He was hanging high over an enemy city…and he knew exactly what would happen if he fell into their hands.  Rich through he was, he had few illusions about the world, or about the fact that he and his entire force was considered expendable, even if they performed their missions.  The Australians might treat him according to the Geneva Convention, but he was about to try to knock out their defences; it was much more likely that they would simply lynch him and be done with it.

He almost smiled.  Whatever happened, they could get one hell of a surprise…and he would have been the one to administer it.  He checked the countdown again; he hadn’t wanted to delay, but there had been too much that needed to be done simultaneously, or as close to simultaneously as they could manage.  Once the enemy were on alert, the task would become much harder.

The countdown was ticking down.  It wouldn’t be long now.  His missiles had acquired the target…and that would ensure that the enemy wouldn’t have long to react.  Five minutes…four…three…two…

***
Sergeant Ned Kelly was bored.  His unit of reserves had been called up when the Third World War had broken out, and had then gone though a quick process of retraining and preparing for a conflict that everyone had expected to start within days.  The war had raged in Europe and the Middle East, but everyone in Australia was convinced that the Chinese intended to invade…except the soldiers in his unit.  They had dug in, along with their portable Rapier missile launcher and mobile radar units, and waited.  The enemy hadn’t come.

Darwin had seen a quick burst of panic and a riot, before martial law had been declared to prevent anti-immigrant riots from getting out of hand.  Kelly himself – who claimed descent from the famous Ned Kelly, along with thousands of others – had wanted to round up all of the Chinese immigrants; after what had happened in Europe, everyone was sure that they were a fifth column.  The round-up had begun a week ago, when Central America had exploded; everyone was sure that the fighting had been intended to prevent the Americans from intervening in Australia.  Thousands of Chinese and Indonesians, some of them probably innocent, had been rounded up and transported out of the city, while units like Kelly’s had been deployed around vital targets.

He checked his assault rifle though long habit.  Something was wrong, he could feel it; something was very wrong.  The area around all of the possible targets – and Darwin Naval Base, otherwise known as HMAS Coonawarra, was definitely one of those possible targets – had been cleared; after what truck bombs had done to a dozen European airfields, no one was getting in without clearance forms signed in triplicate and a through search of their persons and their vehicles.  The orders had been clear; even if the Prime Minister arrived, he was to be strip-searched.

“Something’s wrong,” he muttered.  He could feel it, something closer…he could sense something, somehow…and then he heard the engine.  It sounded like a very distant car, but he was somehow sure that it was closer than it sounded, much closer.  There were few cars allowed out on the streets at night, these days; petrol was in short supply and electric cars were rare in Australia, despite determined efforts by the government to introduce them.  “I think that we should…”

Something clicked in his mind.  He looked up.  The noise was closer now…and he knew that no one had permission to by flying, but the RAAF.  It might be a silly kid out of the local civilian airfield, or it might be something much more serious, or…it might be the Chinese finally making their move.  He peered into the darkness…

Light flared…

***
…One…zero.

Cheng didn’t hesitate; he launched all four of his rockets within seconds.  The idea had been fairly simple; one rocket was configured to take out the missile battery, the others were basic HARM-type weapons, homing in on the radar emissions from the radar station.  There were three emission sources within range; one of them a large mobile radar providing coverage for the naval base, the other two smaller radars, all linked into the missile batteries that were intended to cover the port.  Blinded, they would be unable to fire at Chinese missiles…and they would have real problems engaging Chinese aircraft.

A burst of firing cut through the air as the rockets lanced down towards their targets.  Cheng wet himself as the burst hit one of the wings, but the wing needed much more damage before it came apart; he turned the microlight and started to head out, away from the shooting.  An explosion, then several more, flared behind him; for a moment, he saw Darwin, with three other explosions billowing up across the city.  His fellows had clearly found their targets as well…and they had struck them.  Some of the targets were government buildings, others were military command posts, although Cheng knew that they hadn’t counted on taking them all out.  A second burst of fire lanced through the air, behind him, and he found himself praying; someone behind him was pissed off at him.

“This is Microlight One,” he snapped into his radio.  Security no longer mattered.  “Targets have been hit; I repeat, targets have been hit!”

There was no reply, but he had expected none, and he bent his mind to the task of getting out of the city’s airspace before the sun rose enough to illuminate his position.  It would be harder than it seemed; the damage to the wing meant that he had to crawl out of the airspace, and that would be difficult.  If he put too much pressure on the wing, he was…

A third burst of fire struck the wing and this time it was fatal.  Cheng had a moment to act and he acted, yanking the aircraft back, almost into a stall, then using it as a kind of parachute to lower himself out of the air.  The microlight itself was almost unique in that there was almost nothing on it that was worth the effort of destroying it; the Australians were welcome to the wreckage.  The fall almost killed him as the aircraft staggered to and fro; he found himself gasping as he almost hit one building before landing right on top of a skylight and smashing right through…into a bedroom occupied by a woman.  He had only a moment to realise that before he hit the bed.  

She screamed.  Cheng screamed too; his leg had hit the bed hard enough to break it.  He grasped his pistol, and then thought better of it; he was in no state for a gunfight, even if he had been the expert he wasn't with the weapon.  The woman – Cheng had a moment to realise that she was naked and pretty, if one liked redheads – kept screaming and trying to cover herself; she was shouting words that Cheng hadn’t learned in language class.

Two burly men burst in and stopped, unable to believe the sight of the crashed aircraft, the naked woman and Cheng’s crumpled position.  Their shock didn’t last; they picked up Cheng and carried him outside, ignoring his cries of pain and dumped him onto a sofa.  One of them shouted questions at him, questions he didn’t understand, while the other called the police.  Instead, three soldiers turned up and arrested Cheng.

“You’re a very lucky young man,” the medic said, as he was binding up Cheng’s leg.  Cheng had expected to be shot on sight; he was pathetically grateful for the medical care.  The three soldiers were whispering among themselves and pointing to him; he could only hope that the medical care meant that he wasn't about to be taken out and strung up from the nearest tree.  “Do you know whose house that is that you fell into?”

Cheng shook his head.  The painkillers were making it hard to think, but he was sure that he knew no women in Australia.  “That’s Sonja Tarragon,” the medic said.  The name meant nothing to Cheng.  “The greatest – well, at least the most lusted after – singer and actor in Australia.  You fell right into her bedroom and saw her naked; you’ll be a folk hero by tomorrow.”

Cheng stared at him.  The medic laughed.  “Did you take any photographs?”

This time, Cheng joined in the laugh.

Chapter Twenty-Six: Invasion Down Under, Take Two

Combat Zone, Near North Australia

Commodore Qiu watched grimly as the first reports came in.  The Australians would know that they were under attack now; it wouldn’t take long for them to deduce what had happened and launch a counter-strike against his force of ships.  There were thirty-seven ships that might have been the carrier ship within the possible launching region, but the Australians might just sink them all, innocents and Chinese alike.  The damage to the Australian defences had been extensive, but it was purely cosmetic in many ways; the lost radars could be replaced, given time.

“Send the signal back to the General,” he ordered.  Even now, a formidable flight of jet fighters and transport aircraft would be forming up over Indonesia, preparing for the flight to their targeting zones.  “Inform him…that we are proceeding with stage two of the attack.”

“Commodore, the nearest destroyer just brought up all of its sensors,” an EW officer reported.  Commodore Qiu bit down a curse; the Australians might just notice when they started the second stage of the plan…and they risked being caught well out of position.  His ship had changed remarkably overnight; it no longer looked innocent, and nor did any of the others.  “It’s ordering all freighters to come to a stop and prepare to be boarded.”

“Send the signal to the submarines,” Commodore Qiu ordered.  It was almost daylight and if the Australians saw his ship at close range, they would know what it was.  “Order them to take it out, now!”

He pushed the Australian ship out of his mind, for the moment.  In the minutes it would take to get into visual range, it would be either sunk or it would start launching its missiles towards the Chinese ship itself.  Commodore Qiu was under no illusions; the antiship missiles that had been loaded onboard the freighter didn’t transform it into a warship.  If they fired, they might get lucky…but the likely result would be mutual destruction; his ship was large enough to take a missile hit and survive, but the ammunition and fuel below decks would send it up like a firecracker.

“They’re locking targeting sensors on us,” the officer snapped.  Commodore Qiu winced.  “They’re preparing to fire!”

They had to have picked up something; Commodore Qiu wondered vaguely what they had seen, but it didn’t matter.  “Launch the aircraft now,” he snapped.  “Tell them to…”

“Report from the submarine,” the communications officer injected.  “They hit the Australian ship.”

Commodore Qiu allowed himself a moment of relief.  “Get the Merlins in the air now,” he repeated.  The Australians would be launching everything they had into the air and it was necessary to weaken them as much as possible, even before the main body of the PLAN arrived, along with air cover.  The Australians would be forcing as much as they could out of the harbours, despite the damage; their navy was at least as good as the PLAN, perhaps better.  “Order the Vong to commence its launch sequence now!”

He smiled thinly.  The Vong was a freighter that had been modified to serve as proto-arsenal ship, with dozens of cruise missiles stacked up neatly for rapid launch in vast numbers.  The Americans had built two proper arsenal ships; the Chinese had modified a handful of freighters to produce additional firepower for the PLAN.  Two of them had taken part in the Battle of Taiwan; two more had been included in his fleet, indistinguishable from normal freighters until they opened fire.  The display updated itself as the first cruise missiles launched themselves towards Australia, heading towards an entire series of targets right across the Northern Territory.

He would have preferred more targets, but the Pact had spent far too many cruise missiles in the battle off Taiwan; there were only a few hundred left in the Pact’s arsenals, and almost all of the heavy land-attack missiles had been deployed with his force.  There were lighter missiles with the air armada that was on its way, even now, from the Chinese bases in Indonesia, but few of them had the sheer kick of the weapons that had taken out American aircraft carriers and were now targeted on dozens of targets in Australia.

“Commodore, we have three Eurofighters on close-approach,” the air defence officer snapped.  Commodore Qiu spun around.  “They’re targeting the Vong!”

***
Flying Officer Kitty Johnston	 was starting to watch a nightmare unfolding right in front of her.  Her force of Eurofighters had been assigned to a basic patrol over the Northern Territory, a patrol like hundreds of others she had flown since the Pact had moved into Indonesia.  This night had promised to be more of the same, even though they had been placed on QRA for several nights running, and she had been thinking longing thoughts about her boyfriend and the week’s leave that she had been offers, provided she took it in Darwin.  

Now…now, everyone on the communications systems were shouting about invisible attackers and stupid kids, often both at once, and then parts of the radar network had started to go down.  Kitty knew procedure; she had tried to access the ground-based radar system, only to discover that it was fragmented and damaged.  She had made a command decision and brought up her own onboard radars, only to become more confused…and then alarmed; there were signs of a massive Chinese force heading in from Indonesia.  There were hundreds of fighters and transporters…and, judging from the radar and radio signals she was picking up, most of the PLAN was coming in, right behind them.

“Attention, Kangaroos,” a voice broke in on her musings.  Kitty almost laughed; the voice belonged to a particularly macho ground controller who had made no secret of his ambition to bed each and every woman on the base.  Married, unmarried, in a relationship, lesbian…he had tried to sleep with them all.  “Report in, now!”

Kitty bit down on her amusement and outlined her situation, receiving a brief pulse of information in exchange; it didn’t look good.  The invisible aircraft, which seemed to be microlights, had hit both of the RAAF bases in the Northern Territory and destroyed the aircraft that were on QRA.  Other aircraft had been in the bunkers and were safe, but there would be some delay before they could be launched…and she realised with a flicker of pure horror that they might not have the chance to launch.

“I have incoming missiles, being launched from a ship in the ocean,” she snapped.  “Sir, they’re targeting the bases…”

“Engage that ship and the others and take it out,” the controller snapped.  He sounded rattled; the air defence units on the ground had been crippled, and all he had was the feed from her aircraft.  “Weapons are free, I repeat; weapons are free!”

“I’ll take ten,” she muttered, and snapped orders to the remainder of her flight.  The Hornets would hang back and provide some cover to the Eurofighters, which were armed with bombs that could be deployed against ships.  Aircraft armed with antiship missiles had been on standby…and had been turned into flaming wreckage by the microlights.  Other aircraft would be on their way up from the bases to the south, but they would take time to reach anywhere useful, and by that time the Chinese would have started their attacks.

She was grimly aware of her own vulnerability as the Eurofighters headed out over the sea.  An Australian warship was ablaze and sinking within the ocean, burning brightly; another was patrolling heavily, using a Sea King to hunt for enemy submarines.  It would take it minutes to get within even weapons range of the suspect ships…and there were over thirty of them.  They couldn’t all be hostile, could they?

“Designate the missile-launching ship as Target One,” she ordered.  There was no time for finesse; the ship was launching missiles at an awesome rate…and there were already over forty in the air.  She wondered briefly just how many could be loaded inside a freighter, remembered how many missiles the American arsenal ships could carry, and cursed; there could be hundreds of missiles loaded into the ship.  “Jack, take it out!”

Kangaroo Two swooped down, preparing to launch his bombs, as an air-search radar cut through the early morning gloom.  The radar wasn’t on the targeted ship, but another…and then she saw the Merlins.  The Chinese had VTOL supersonic fighters on the ships…and the fight had suddenly become a lot more dangerous.  Even as Kangaroo Two launched its bombs towards the missile launching ship, the Merlin aircraft launched themselves forward and came at the three Eurofighters.  

“Evasive action, fox-two,” Kitty snapped, launching an ASRAAM missile at the lead Merlin.  She had flown a Merlin; the RAAF had considered buying a few dozen of the aircraft, but the budget had refused to stretch far enough to purchase more than a handful.  They were slower than the Eurofighters, but they were almost as nimble as their predecessors…and in the hands of a skilled pilot, they were deadly.  The Chinese aircraft dodged her missile with a quick spin, and then it fired a missile back.

“Kangaroo Three, watch your six,” she snapped.  Below her, the freighter exploded with a thunderous blast, sending powerful waves spreading everywhere.  An unknown voice echoed through the GUARD channel, ordering all nearby freighters to head towards the coast at once; Kitty didn’t even recognise the voice in all the confusion.  “Kangaroo Two, good shooting; cover me!”

Three more ships were launching Merlins now, their radars punching through the sky to illuminate her fighter; she rolled and dived to avoid a missile before launching a BVRAAM at an unlucky Chinese pilot.  The Chinese pilot wasn't quick enough that time; he was blown out of the sky by the impact.  The main body of the Chinese force was heading out to intercept Kitty’s force…and it dawned on her how alone the seven aircraft actually were.

“Hornets, cover our retreat,” she snapped.  She hated to abandon the other freighters; she was morally certain that they were just as hostile as the one that was now flaming wreckage on the sea.  The remainder of the RAAF would be bound to be on its way; seventeen more aircraft had gotten into the sky before the cruise missiles had impacted…one of them an AWACS.  Another aircraft was orbiting from the bases in the south; between them, the Australian air defence network would be getting back on line.  The only question was how much more they could get into the fight before the main body of the Chinese aircraft could reach them.

Dozens of freighters, some of them probably innocent, had picked up the message ordering them to the coast.  She saw, now, that it was a trick; some of the ships would be sunk without cause, just in case they contained a major force of Chinese Marines.  The main group of suspect ships were heading towards Darwin now; she knew that the port had been hammered by several missiles, once the microlights had done their dirty work and the defenders would have been stunned.  She flashed a warning into the network and winced; her boyfriend might be down there, caught in the chaos.  A flight of missiles lanced through the air as a second Chinese ship attempted to fire on an Australian destroyer; the Australians sank the converted freighter with a single shot.

Just for a moment, she took her eyes off the control and saw the uplink from the AWACS…and wished she hadn’t.  There were thousands of Chinese aircraft and missiles in the air, some of them already exchanging fire with Australian units, and there was an entire invasion fleet on the way.  She looked at the emission patterns and realised that almost every ship in the Chinese fleet was heading their way, along with some Indian ships and perhaps even Russian aircraft.  The Pact had a lot of interoperability and it showed.

“This is Kangaroo Lead,” she said, when the controllers finally got to her.  There were thirty-seven Australian aircraft in the combat zone, with others on their way towards the encounter zone, and she knew that there wouldn’t be enough.  The RAAF Bases at Darwin and Tindal had been struck badly; some of the Chinese Merlins were clearly proceeding in to clear the way to the docks, before the Australians got themselves organised.  “I have three missiles left, and fifty percent fuel.”

The controllers were barking orders, trying to prepare for the coming impact, as the Chinese aircraft closed in on Australia.  Some tankers were on their way, but they wouldn’t be up in time to support the fighters; she might have to break contact and flee to an emergency reserve airfield if both of the main airfields were out of service.  RAAF bases were massive, designed to soak up dozens of hits and remain operational, but the Chinese could have done all sorts of nasty and inventive tricks to render the bases unusable.

Kitty looked down at the display again and felt awe…and fear.  It wouldn’t be long now.

***
“The Merlins are on their way in towards their targets,” the air defence officer said.  “The Australians are consolidating their forces to prepare for our main air offensive.”

“Good,” Commodore Qiu said.  He studied the display for a moment.  “And the Australian Navy?”

“We sunk four heavy units and they sunk two of ours,” the liaison said.  Commodore Qiu muttered a word under his breath; the higher-ups wouldn’t be happy about losing some of the PLAN’s latest ships.  They would be demanding – again – to know why he wasn't spending microlights on the task of sinking the enemy ships.  “The main body of their fleet seems to be hanging back, but there have been a vast number of contacts with submarines and they have sunk at least two of ours, perhaps more.”

Commodore Qiu nodded.  The Australians had to know that they were going up against three Pact carriers and almost all of its surface ships; they wouldn’t want to risk an engagement until the American carriers could arrive to support them.  At the same time, his superior would need most of his force available to stand off the Americans; he wouldn’t be interested in chasing the Australians into perfect submarine territory.  He wouldn’t have complained if the Australians had dared to risk an engagement…but it seemed as if they had decided to decline the challenge.

“The heavy transports are on their way in,” the officer assured him.  “By the time the Americans can intervene, they will have to deal with a major army embarked on their ally’s soil.”

Commodore Qiu hoped that he was right.

***
The microburst had shaken Captain John Smith out of a loose sleep; HMS Inflexible had been drifting under the waves near Australia, recovering from their last mission into Chinese territory.  He was forbidden, under the sternest possible orders, to dock at any Australian dock without permission and heavy security measures; the Chinese would have sold their mothers into slavery to get a good look at the Inflexible.

He skimmed his eyes down the message and swore.  “Commander, bring us to general quarters,” he ordered.  “The Chinese have decided to have a party and we have to gatecrash.”

He dressed quickly and headed along the corridor into the bridge.  Like the other NGW warships, the Inflexible’s interior looked like something out of a science-fiction movie, with computer displays and even a voice-activated computer for his personal use.  The craft was completely silent and very difficult for anyone to detect, even with the latest American equipment.  The Chinese wouldn’t have noticed if he had been holding a drunken party while sailing under one of their carriers.

“I got a quick feed from the Australian defence network,” Commander Claudia Brody informed him.  Her long dark hair looked uncombed; the ship’s standards tended to fall whenever they had finished a mission.  “The Chinese have over five hundred ships operating within this general area, including several dozen ASW ships.  The Aussies have lost at least two submarines attempting to penetrate it.”

Smith nodded as he took in the view.  The PLAN had a long habit of rarely decommissioning a ship, despite their financial troubles; some of the ships in the fleet would be older than he was, others would be the latest ships China possessed.  Some of them would only be good for soaking up missiles, others would be dangerous…and still others would have been extensively and unpredictably modified.  It would be dangerous to slip too close, and yet…he wanted to hit something, anything, to put the Chinese off feeling too confident.

“There,” he said, examining the display.  There was a force of three heavy air defence destroyers, heading south along with the remainder of the force; they would make ideal targets.  “I think we’ll take them out.  Parker, take us in, carefully.”

The Chinese were determined to avoid losing any ships, he realised; they were charging around as if they had caught a sniff of his craft.  If they had started dropping charges at random, they might have accidentally put him in a very difficult position, but fortunately, the waters were deep enough for the Inflexible to avoid a major impact.  Parker knew his job; the real trick was to place the Inflexible somewhere where the Chinese would come to them.

“There,” he said.  He looked very pleased with himself; Smith smiled mischievously.  “We have a lock on the targets and an escape route.”

“Good,” Smith said.  He paused to savour the moment.  He had trained as a submariner for the Royal Navy, but the last time before the Third World War had broken out that a submarine had gone into battle had been at the Falklands.  The Argentines were digging in on the Falklands now…and they would have to be evicted at some point.  Smith just hoped that he would be alive to take part in that battle.  “Fire!”

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Invasion Down Under, Take Three

Combat Zone, North Australia

“Sergeant, we have a radar contact, there’s at least two enemy aircraft heading towards our position,” the panting Private gasped.  He had run all the way from the airfields small control tower towards the SAS position along the edges of the airfield.  “They should be here in seven minutes and counting!”

Sergeant John Redwood, Australian SAS, nodded.  They had expected as much, even though the men of the unit hadn’t expected to fight on their own homeland when they had signed up for the Royal Australian Army.  Redwood, like the other men of the Special Air Service Regiment, had expected forward deployment to East Timor or even to the Philippines, rather than a deployment on his own home soil, but they had their orders…even though they might be out of position for actually defeating the Chinese when they landed.

Someone very smart in Canberra had sat down with a map and thought carefully about the prospects of someone actually trying to invade Australia…and how they might go about it.  The model had been updated in the wake of the Pact’s invasion of Poland, from rounding up possible subversives to preparing to receive airborne landings at airfields.  The Poles had suffered parachute and direct-landing attacks on many of their commercial and military airfields; the Chinese had every incentive to establish airheads on Australia as soon as possible.  The original plan had called for units of the Australian Army to defend the commercial airfields…and then an officer who was a skilled private pilot had pointed out the dangers of the private airfields.  There were hundreds of little airfields all over Australia, and some of them were quite isolated.  The Chinese could land there and do unto the Australians what the Russians had done unto the Poles and Germans; land a large force and expand as quickly as possible.

He barked orders to his team.  Australia had been caught short of SHORAD units, even though the Special Air Service Regiment was supposed to have dozens of portable launchers; he had only one Stinger team with him as they deployed around the airfield.  He had made up for it, he hoped, with a HMG team and plenty of other weapons; the Chinese would try to land because they would have no idea what was waiting for them, assuming that they knew about the airfield.

The equations were daunting, even to Redwood, who was used to focusing on just one aspect of the mission.  There were hundreds of possible landing zones for the Chinese, and they all had to be covered, but if the Chinese didn’t even know about the smaller airfields, they would certainly not be attempting to land on them.  There was a second reason for the team being there, however; if the worst happened, and they were not engaged, but the Chinese landed anyway…they were to conduct attacks in the enemy rear.  Redwood didn’t like that, not least because it meant that they would be wasting the team during the first battles, but orders were orders.

“Wow,” one of the Privates breathed.  “Look at that.”

Redwood muttered a sharp command.  The air battle was raging over Northern Australia, but it was a strange battle; they could hear bangs and crashes in the sky, but see very little of the actual conflict.  They had seen a handful of aircraft racing north and so he hoped that they were friendly aircraft, but there was no way to know.  Out in the outback, with flies and heat rising around them, his force might as well be cut off from all around them, so little did they know about the overall fight.

“Two minutes,” one of his people muttered.  He held a microburst terminal, the newest piece of equipment in the platoon; ironically, much of the modern communications network had been damaged by the first Chinese attacks.  A lot of effort had gone into preventing an EMP from knocking out their communications, but less had been put into relay stations; the last overall report they had heard had been from Darwin, about a missile strike.  “They’re coming.”

Redwood nodded.  The airfield itself was about an hour’s drive from Darwin and consisted of two hangers, a control tower and a small set of living quarters.  The owner – who had decamped with his aircraft when they had arrived – had told him that they had hosted air shows in the past, but looking at the lazy surroundings, he privately doubted that anyone, but real fanatics came to the airfield.  The only sign of anything interesting was the giant sheep statue, sitting in one corner of the fence and glaring menacingly at a smaller statue of a goat.  The owner had apparently followed the Giant Sheep religion.

“Bob,” he muttered, accessing his tactical radio, “did you get the flamethrower idea of yours working?”

“Got it,” Bob muttered back.  “We have a rough and ready flamethrower ready for those blokes when they turn up, except there’s the small problem that we can’t turn it off.”

Redwood could hear engines in the distance now.  “I don’t think it matters,” he said wryly.  “Just be prepared to use it if the wankers manage to get established.”

An aircraft flashed low overhead; it looked like a Harrier, only cooler.  Redwood guessed that it was a Merlin, scouting out for the landing force.  He hoped that the Chinese aircraft hadn’t seen anything; their task would be much easier if the Chinese tried to land, rather than land using parachutes.  He’d dug his men in and the Chinese hadn’t tried to kill them, so it was possible that they hadn’t managed to see them, but there was no way to know.

“There,” Sergeant Toby said.  “Here they come.”

Redwood saw a massive aircraft – two massive aircraft – heading towards the airfield, droning along as they lowered their landing gear and prepared to land.  They both carried Australian markings, but he knew that there were no large Australian aircraft operating in the area at all.  The Chinese were trying to be clever; Redwood could be clever too, and they didn’t know he was there.

“Sam, take out the second aircraft when the first one lands,” he muttered.  The Chinese would attempt to react when he opened fire…and he knew exactly what he would do in their situation.  If the first aircraft came under fire, the second would try to escape…and Redwood wanted both aircraft so badly he could taste it.  The lead aircraft was slowing as it neared the ground, almost drifting towards the runway; he was impressed…and privately annoyed that there hadn’t been any time to produce more than a few mines.  The aircraft touched down…and Sam fired, a line of fire launching the Stinger missile into the air as the lead aircraft spun to get away from the Australian fire…

“Fire,” Redwood snapped.  His men opened fire, pouring bullets into the first aircraft, while the second one was clipped in the wing by the missile and fell out of the sky, coming down right on top of the fence and exploding in a massive ball of fire.  Redwood detailed two of his men to check for survivors, even though he could have sworn that nothing could survive such an impact, and kept shooting into the first craft

He swore; someone on the other side had the reactions of a cat.  The enemy aircraft had a tail gunner and he opened fire, shooting back at the Australians in their position.  Redwood cursed as the heavy machine gunner fired at them; the entire craft had to have plenty of armour to keep its crew safe from attack.  The entire side of the craft collapsed and a line of Chinese infantrymen poured out, throwing themselves to the ground.

“Grenades, now,” Redwood snapped.  This was getting too hairy; one of the Chinese fighters might return at any moment, or worse.  Had the Chinese captured an airhead somewhere already?  “Take that aircraft out!”

“I got the flamethrower ready,” Bob said.  “Shall I?”

“Do it,” Redwood shouted.  A Chinese officer was trying to direct his men into a defensive position; he picked him off with a shot, wondering just how many men the Chinese had packed into the aircraft.  “Move, you fucking wanker; we’ve having our cocks shot off here!”

“Keep your hair on,” Bob said.  “Here it comes!”

The owner of the airfield, it had been discovered, had kept much more patrol than rationing allowed, apparently to use in his aircraft.  Redwood expected that he had really intended to sell it on the black market, but found it hard to care; the owner might just have saved their butts.  The tank had so much fuel compressed into it…and Bob had just lit a match…

A massive wave of flame reached out for the Chinese position, a wave of burning fuel washing out through the air and slamming into the Chinese aircraft.  There was an instant’s pause…and then the aircraft exploded in a massive ball of fire, almost blowing out the fire before it reasserted itself.

“Turn the pumps off,” Redwood bellowed, trying to make himself heard.  He could hear a single fading scream in the Chinese position, and then there was nothing; anyone killed would be facing a mercy killing.  “Turn them off!”

The flames subsided, slightly, as Bob managed to cut the pumps.  Redwood muttered orders as the fire started to die slightly; it was lucky that there was little to burn, but the dead Chinese and their equipment.  He had feared, for a moment, that the heat would set the ground on fire, but the fires weren’t catching.  He watched grimly, wondering if anyone would come staggering out of the flames, but it looked as if they were safe, for the moment.

He glanced down at his watch.  It had been barely seven minutes since the first aircraft had arrived.  It had felt longer.

“Call it in,” he ordered, as the flames died away.  Some of his men checked through the wreckage, just in case, but there were only a few hints of where the bodies had been, before the flames had scorched them clean of life.  He felt a moment of pity, before hearing more explosions in the distance; someone, somewhere, was taking a beating.  “Tell them that we have repelled an attack on the airport with” – he glanced around quickly – “only three injuries and one fatality.  We need orders.”

“I don’t think they’ll have much for us,” the communications officer said.  “Sir, there’s a lot of jamming, but there are reports of major attacks right around Darwin and the RAAF bases seem to be completely off the air.”  His face paled.  “I don’t think it’s good news.”

Redwood looked towards the skies and wondered, even as a cruise missile appeared overhead, heading towards the south.  Was Kitty up there, fighting the enemy?  Somehow, he doubted that he would ever see her again…as the sounds of fighting grew closer and closer…

He shivered.

***
It had been a minor miscalculation that had slowed up the best of plans, Commodore Qiu realised, even as a flight of Merlins headed towards the naval base to put an end to the problem.  Through sheer ill timing, an Australian Type-45 destroyer had been attempting to leave the base when a cruise missile had damaged it, but the glancing blow had not been sufficient to actually sink the ship.  The crew seemed not to know that they were doomed; they were using the guns on the ship to engage the Chinese Marines assaulting Darwin and the missiles to engage an unlucky PLAN destroyer that had sailed up, apparently under the assumption that everything was perfectly safe.  If the Captain of that ship had survived, which he probably hadn’t, Commodore Qiu would have had him shot; China could not afford to lose many ships.

The Marines had, at least, managed to take over some of the civilian docks, despite determined and brutal resistance.  Commodore Qiu had watched in awe as one dock was taken, first by one side and then the other, several times; by the time the fighting had finished and the Australians all killed, the docks were in ruins.  The massive airlift into Darwin International Airport, at least, had been a success; one of the microlights had hit the fuel dump and the resulting explosion had damaged the defence enough for the paratroopers to take the airport after a short sharp encounter.

“The Merlins are launching missiles now,” the air controller reported.  Commodore Qiu muttered a word under his breath; the crew on the Australian ship were clearly using the anti-air systems on the ship as well.  Two Merlins were swatted out of the sky by the time the destroyer was hit and exploded in a tearing series of explosions, leaving a massive heap of flaming wreckage blocking parts of the harbour.  “They hit the bastard.”

“Good,” Commodore Qiu said, concealing his anger.  The air battle, at least, had died down a little as both sides retreated to lick their wounds.  His deployed forces, landing now all along the coast, would be linking up with each other and tying a noose around Darwin.  It wouldn’t be long before General Cheng arrived to take over tactical command, but for the moment, he had the responsibility…and the knowledge that failure would be severely punished.  “The civilians?”

He’d landed a civil affairs unit towards the end of the first unloading operation, now that engineers were working hard to get the docks back into shape, and they had been broadcasting a message to the civilians.  It was simple; stay in your homes, do not go outside, do not attempt to interfere with the military operations and you will be unharmed.  He knew better than to think that the civilians would always have the option of obeying his orders; there were pockets of resistance all over Darwin.

“Many are trying to keep their heads down,” the liaison officer reported.  “Others are other supporting the soldiers, and still others are trying to flee the city and head out into the…outback.  We have been trying to round up soldiers, but they have been fighting and many of them are refusing to surrender.”

“Have a tactical strike team move in with FAE bombs for Robertson Barracks,” he ordered.  The soldiers in the barracks had been lucky enough to avoid the cruise missile that had been intended to destroy them; the missile had hit a skyscraper instead and brought it crashing down to the ground.  “That's their centre of resistance and I want it destroyed.”

He glanced down at a terminal.  “What about the air bases?”

“We have them, but they have been badly damaged by the defenders,” another officer said.  “We have captured vast stores of petrol, but aviation fuel dumps were dynamited before they could be taken and the explosions did vast damage.”

The petrol, at least, could be used for the microlights and the tanks, Commodore Qiu knew, assuming that the resistance at Robertson Barracks wasn't ended quickly.  He was impressed, despite himself, with the quality of the opposing soldiers; he had expected a tough fight, but the sheer intensity of it was astonishing…and impressive.  He liked to think that his forces could do as well, but he didn’t know if they could have done, or if they could have survived knowing that they were dead…and all that was left to them was taking a few down before they died.

“Get the SAM equipment unloaded and disperse it around the docks,” he ordered, pushing sentimentality aside.  There wasn't time to feel sentiment any longer.  The Australians would be regrouping at one of their southern bases and they would launch a counter-air strike as soon as possible.  It was what he would have done.  “As soon as that's done, tell them in Indonesia that I need a large delivery of fuel so that I can start operating aircraft from the Australian bases and then have engineering teams transported to the bases and tell them to get to work.”

He turned to face another officer.  “I want you to find me the Lord Mayor or the senior surviving Alderman,” he snapped.  The commando teams had been intended to secure them before the invasion actually began; the Australians had managed to throw a spanner into that particular part of the plan.  “Get that worthy here and make sure that he or she is in a cooperative mood.  I want other engineering teams going through the city as soon as it is secured and rounding up trucks and other forms of transport, anything that we need.”

“Yes, Commodore,” the officer said.  He had an uncle who was in the PLAN himself and quite a high ranking officer; Commodore Qiu intended to ensure that the officer would have a fair chance to rise if he did well…or that he would suffer an accident if he didn’t live up to the glowing description.  “I shall see to it at once.”

Commodore Qiu dismissed him with a nod of his head and turned to look out at Darwin, flames rising from parts of the city as the Chinese fought house-to-house to destroy any last resistance.  The Australians wouldn’t have the chance to slow his plan any further; he had sold the idea to the General and invested enough effort in it to make failure a personal defeat, as well as the end of his career.

“Remember to ensure that all the convoys have proper escorts,” he said, turning his head to look at one of the dispatch officers.  It was a race now, a race between his ability to land more troops and supplies…and the arrival of the American carriers, at which point…at which point, even if they lost the resulting naval battle, they would still have a strangle hold on Darwin and perhaps even the rest of Australia.  “We don’t want to lose more supplies to a submarine.”

He looked back at the burning coastline and smiled.

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Stranglehold, Take One

Near Canberra, Australia

“That’s a report from the field commander,” General Hawthorne said.  “The resistance in Darwin itself is tapering off and what units we can withdraw are being withdrawn.”

“We just had a report from the submarines,” Admiral Sutherland injected.  “They just sunk seven more Chinese ships and left them burning on the sea.”

The Prime Minister of Australia looked down at the table.  Despite himself, he hated the bunker, even though it might well have saved his life.  There had been no major attacks on Canberra, but the Chinese had learnt from the Russians and might well have attempted to decapitate his government.  It was a massive construction, and one of Australia’s best-kept secrets, but it was claustrophobic.  The Prime Minister came from the outback, something he had made a big issue of during his election campaign; the confined quarters touched in on a level he would have preferred to ignore.

“Tell me, Admiral,” he said.  “Can we sink enough of their tonnage to prevent them from landing even more soldiers on our soil?”

“We are harming them already,” Admiral Sutherland said.  “Us, the Americans, the British, even a French submarine…all of them are attacking the Chinese convoys.  The Chinese have most of their surface navy tied up escorting the convoys, and we are wearing them down piece by piece.  They might have managed to land a major army, but we have them now…”

“Our forces are falling back and we have them on the run,” the Prime Minister said.  He met the Admiral’s eyes.  “Am I the only one who sees a problem with that?”

“Actually, the Admiral has a point,” General Hawthorne said.  The Prime Minister lifted an eyebrow, surprise cutting through his gloom; the Royal Australian Army and the Royal Australian Navy tended to regard each other as competition, even enemies.  For them to agree on anything was unusual.  “The more of their ships we sink, the weaker their supply lines become, and we have made fairly sure that they haven’t been able to capture much in the way of supplies.  They might manage to pick up some petrol, but there is very little in the way of aviation fuel for them to take and use against us.”

His hand outlined the position on the map.  “Look, the Chinese have overrun Darwin and have reached out as far as Pine Creek, but their logistics are bad,” he continued.  “Most of the vehicles in Darwin were either immobilised or destroyed by our forces, and while they can press commercial vehicles into use with a little repair work, they are going to have problems with their transport, not least because we have our own forces prepared to meet an advance.  The further they advance, the more they enter our own tactical air cover and the more we can hurt them before they actually come to grips with our soldiers.”

He nodded once.  “In the meantime, we have been able to funnel forward reinforcements under cover of darkness, now that we know where they are,” he said.  “They don’t have the capability to open up a second beachhead because they need most of their ships funnelling supplies to the first beachhead, so we can bring up units from Townsville and Kimberly.  The General Staff believes that the Chinese will attempt to open an offensive in the direction of Townsville…and we will be there, ready for them.”

The Prime Minister scowled.  “And the Americans?”

“The American carriers will be here within four days,” Admiral Sutherland said.  “That’s two carriers and fifty other surface ships, and they will be reinforced by the remainder of our own navy.  That’s enough firepower to wipe the remainder of the Chinese fleet off the face of the ocean and it will be used.  Once that happens…the Chinese fleet is dead and we can mop up the remainder of the Chinese forces at our leisure.”

“I see,” the Prime Minister said.  “And what happens, incidentally, if they do march in this direction?”

“They would have to be crazy,” General Hawthorne said.  “We have problems doing that and we’re used to the area.  If they try to march across the centre of Australia, their logistics will break down and kill most of them before our soldiers get involved.  We should pray that that is what they are stupid enough to do.”

He shook his head.  “They have the choice between digging in to the Northern Territory and daring us to dig them out, or attempting to march around the coastline and trying to force the issue as soon as possible,” he concluded.  “The General Staff, as I said, believes that they will try to march east…and we have to prepare to meet it.”

The Prime Minister sighed.  He hadn’t ever expected to become a war leader; his experience had not been in science, or the military, but the arts.  He had expected to find his term spent trying to resolve the vexing problem of Australia’s economy and the need to develop some of the resources in its land, despite popular public opinion that would have preferred to have remained dependent upon outside sources of supply.  The thought of war was repugnant to him, but he knew that there was no choice, but to try to fight it.

“The civilians,” he said, grimly.  He was elected to serve them, after all.  “What’s happening to them under the Chinese?”

“It’s only been a day, Prime Minister,” General Hawthorne said.  He leaned forward.  “A large percentage of the population was evacuated to camps near Alice Springs, so they’re currently safe from harm; many others were conscripted into the army and will probably end up fighting to recover their home city.  The remainder…the Chinese have been broadcasting instructions to stay off the streets and remain in their homes, and we hope that most of them are obeying them.”

Admiral Sutherland grimaced.  “A lot more of them will be caught in the middle of the fighting anyway,” he said.  “We don’t know for sure how many, but it will be bad.”

The Prime Minister felt sick.  He had always had the impression of the military as something that ground up people and reshaped them into something else…and the thought of thousands of his people chewed to pieces by the fighting terrified him.  The war would smash the lives of thousands of civilians, none of whom had asked for the war, nor had they any means of defending themselves.

“In the long run, suffering is only going to increase,” General Hawthorne warned.  The Prime Minister looked for hope and found none.  “We destroyed the utilities – water and electric stations – before withdrawing, although a stealth drone found proof that the Chinese had deployed a desalination plant as one of their second wave of reinforcements.  If they intend to give water to the population…we don’t know for sure, but we – we and the Americans – have made it clear that war criminals will be punished, after we win the war.

“There’s little precedent for how they might treat the civilians,” he continued.  “In Indonesia and Tibet, they worked hard to crush the native culture, with the net result that there is a major insurgency being carried out behind Chinese lines in Indonesia.  There, of course, they had a substantial Chinese population to help…and in a very real sense, they practiced ethnic cleansing on the population.  Here…well, most of the Chinese were moved out of the area, so…frankly, we could be looking at anything from unconcerned neglect to mass slaughter and expulsion from the occupied zone.”

The Prime Minister took a long breath.  “And if we were to offer to supply the civilians with food and water?”

General Hawthorne met his eyes.  “Prime Minister, with all due respect, that would be a dreadful mistake,” he said.  The Prime Minister, on the verge of ordering it anyway, caught his breath.  “The Chinese, you see, will take the food and water for themselves.”

He stood up to pace.  “Unless something goes really wrong with the naval side of the war, the Chinese will start having supply problems,” he said.  “We can expect them to gather as much foodstuffs as they can from the city and the surrounding territories, but there’s a very obvious limit to how much they can produce through that method.  We don’t know for sure just how large an army they have landed, but they will certainly need a great deal of food, just to remain alive…

“The thing is, Prime Minister, adherence to the laws of war comes with a price,” he continued.  “A force that is certain of victory doesn’t need to fear retaliation from the enemy; witness how the Russians acted in 1945.  Conversely, a force that is desperate to survive won’t waste time worrying about niceties when it comes to keeping the men alive; no General worth his salt is going to worry about the rules when his people are dying.  Their welfare comes first.  If whoever is in command of the Chinese force is stupid enough to allow us to ship food to our people, and his people are starving and forbidden to touch the food, the junior officers and men will mutiny against him.  If we send them food, we’ll just be keeping the Chinese in the game…”

The Prime Minister stared at him.  “And the Red Cross?”

“If the Pact wins the war, their definition of ‘war crime’ and ‘atrocity’ will be the one that is applied to the post-war trials,” General Hawthorne said.  “It may be forbidden to starve a population or to expel it, but when has that ever stopped evil men?  The Chinese might not be evil, but all it would take is someone convincing their leader that the only way to win is to expel the population of Darwin.”

“I see,” the Prime Minister said.  He felt numb inside.  “What happens when they come towards Townsville?”

General Hawthorne looked relieved to have escaped the difficult subject.  “We have several units in position to block their advance,” he said.  “We have deployed mobile anti-aircraft units forward – taking the risk of stripping several possible targets to the south bare – and they’re in position to provide cover from aerial attack.  We are assuming, given the report on how Microlights act in the air, that they will not be deployed during the daytime, but we have rigged up several mobile heavy machine guns to radars to fire at suspicious targets.”  He shrugged.  “It’s a long way from perfect, but it will have to do.

“As you know, we were engaged in the long process of breaking out older aircraft to take part in the fighting,” he continued.  “We should have a force of two hundred aircraft, one hundred and seven of them frontline fighters and the remainder support aircraft.  If nothing else, the Chinese are apparently having difficulties sending their fighters much further south than Alice Springs; their tankers are apparently not as good as ours.  The remainder are electronic warfare aircraft and we hope to be able to pitch them into the Chinese command and control networks.  Incidentally, the Chinese have been setting up mobile radars on Darwin, seeing we destroyed the ones there before the war.”

He grinned.  “In hindsight, we should probably have left them there and hacked them when the time came for the main assault, but never mind,” he said.  “We have been careful not to do anything to suggest that we have them marked down for destruction, and indeed…we don’t plan on physical destruction, but actually using EW to confuse them.  We also have some support from the New Zealand Air Force, although as you know, their strike capability is limited.”

“Non-existent,” Admiral Sutherland said.  He smiled confidently.  “We have several submarines lurking in the hope that the Chinese will sail their aircraft carriers around the Great Barrier Reef, but practically, it’s not that likely.  If so, we can hit them and take them out of the fight before the Americans arrive.”

“We assume that the attack will begin as soon as possible,” General Hawthorne said.  “Special Operations groups are already behind the Chinese lines and are harassing them, so we may see the Chinese wasting time in anti-partisan operations.  If not, they should be in a position to advance within a few days, depending on how strong they think their position is.”

“I understand,” the Prime Minister said.  “General…what if we offered to take the population if they were willing to send them out?”

General Hawthorne shrugged.  “They might agree, or they might want the population as human shields,” he said.  “The sooner the Pact is defeated, the better for us all.”

***
“You pilots have been through hell,” the Air Commodore said.  “We’re about to give you the chance to even the score.”

Flying Officer Kitty Johnston looked up from her chair.  The makeshift airfield had been constructed during the cold war and had then been passed on to civilian hands, where it had been used for private jet flights.  The RAAF had kept an interest in the airfield and when the war had broken out had reclaimed it as a dispersal airfield; Kitty’s flight, what remained of it, had been ordered to land there.

It had been a nightmarish battle, with Chinese aircraft everywhere and Australian aircraft attempting to keep them away from Darwin.  The dogfighting had cost both sides badly, but eventually the Australian Air Force had had to pull back to the south, leaving the Chinese in temporary control of the north.  The Chinese didn’t seem to have the range to reach the south, although the pilots had grimly speculated that once the Chinese got the airports they had captured to work, it wouldn’t be long before the Chinese challenged them and attempted to end the war.

“Due to the efforts of the Special Forces teams on the ground, the airfields that fell into Chinese hands are almost useless for them,” the Air Commodore continued.  “Several of the private airfields have been effectively destroyed and left for them to try to repair; others have been taken, but stripped of everything useful to the Chinese.  Some airfields left the aircraft alone, but mined; they exploded and took out some Chinese soldiers when they arrived.”

There were some muted cheers.  The pilots were tired and depressed; one of them had smashed his helmet against the wall and broken it.  They weren’t in the mood for anything, but revenge; their aircraft had been repaired as best as possible.  They wanted to get back up there and get stuck into the Chinese, not sitting around in the briefing room, listening to their commander.  There were the wreckage of a dozen units in the room; far too many of the original squadrons had been battered beyond maintaining their unit cohesion.

“The good news from that is that most of the Chinese aircraft have withdrawn to their carriers or back to Indonesia,” the Air Commodore said.  “Some of your aircraft are being tasked – now – with raids against Chinese lines, others of you are being prepared for attempting to penetrate the defences around Darwin and destroying some of their transport aircraft on the ground.  The navy is doing a surprisingly good job of sinking Chinese ships in the sea, but our task is to cover the army and prevent further air supply, not something easy, but we will do it.”

He lowered his voice.  “The Prime Minister broadcast to the country an hour ago,” he said, “while you were still up in the air.  The Chinese forces might have landed, but the fight is far from over.  I have faith that each and every one of you will work together to crush this new threat to the country and take the war with us beside our allies into the heart of the enemy alliance against us.”

Kitty nodded to herself.  She was tired, too tired to fly safely.  “You all need sleep,” the Air Commodore said firmly.  “For obvious reasons, we’re not bunking you next to your aircraft; instead, billets have been prepared for you nearby.  Get some sleep and, well…in the morning, the Chinese will not have packed up and gone home.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Stranglehold, Take Two

Northern Territory, Australia

Across the blue ocean, Commodore Qiu Xiaoshuai could see a rising pillar of smoke, pouring into the sky.  The smoke marked the death of a Chinese ship that had thought it was safe…before a submarine had launched a missile and blasted it amidships with several tons of high explosives.  The ship had carried enough ammunition to keep an armoured brigade fighting for a week; the resulting explosion had blown the ship to bits.  Commodore Qiu tried to form an image, in his mind, of the ship’s killer being shaken to pieces by the shockwaves, but he knew that it was wishful thinking.  The Allied sub that had launched the attack would have gotten safely away.

“I believe that you in the navy promised that you would have secure supply lines,” General Cheng Xingming said.  The General had set up his command post near Darwin International Airport, where hundreds of aircraft were flying in supplies and men from Indonesia.  Commodore Qiu privately expected that there would be a major accident soon; there were too many aircraft operating in unfamiliar territory.  They had taken the pre-war precaution of having some of the air force’s pilots familiarise themselves with possible targets, but the shooting war had changed everything.  “I do not call that secure.”

The tower allowed anyone standing in it to look over the city.  Darwin was a hotbed of trouble and strife, even a day after the invasion force had cleared out the majority of the soldiers.  General Cheng had every reason to be more than a little worried; there could be countless Australian soldiers who had taken off their uniforms and blended with the general population.  The Australians, for some strange reason, hadn’t felt inclined to make the invasion easy; computer files that should have been loaded with helpful information – like who was and who was not a police officer – had been wiped, and paper documents had been burned.  Australia hadn’t developed an identity card system for anyone, but immigrants; the Medicare Card was useful, but it hadn’t been designed with an invading force in mind.

Commodore Qiu kept his voice calm.  He was starting to realise that the reluctance of the PLAN to acknowledge his real rank might have a reason beyond camouflage; no one would have expected a major invasion effort to be headed by a mere Commodore.  The plan hadn’t worked as well as he had hoped, even though parts of it had worked perfectly; the Australians had launched a series of small attacks that had hurt Chinese forces as they were trying to dig into the city.

“The main body of the convoys are safe,” he said, knowing perfectly well that that was a slight exaggeration.  He had nearly two hundred warships doing little more than running escorts for the freighters and the defenders were still slipping in attack after attack.  “You insisted on moving up the schedule and therefore some freighters had to be sent in with a limited escort.”

General Cheng eyed him.  “We have to spread out our control as far as possible,” he said.  “In order to do that, we need reinforcements and we need more aircraft directly involved.  Carrier support is not adequate and we don’t have any captured fuel for the aircraft.”

Commodore Qiu scowled inwardly.  The logistics were the bane of any operation, not least because everyone involved had different requirements.  The air force wanted the captured airfields repaired as quickly as possible, despite the fact that the Australians had thoughtfully destroyed most of each airfield before withdrawing…and they needed specialised equipment to accomplish that.  The navy wanted to hunt down and destroy the remaining enemy submarines, despite the fact that the enemy submarines had to come to the PLAN if they wanted to hit anything…and the Army had ambitions to march around the continent to Townsville.

“We knew that it would take time,” Commodore Qiu said, as reassuringly as he could.  “We have a track on two very large and powerful American carriers heading towards Australia and we have no choice, but to get as much as possible over here before the Americans can attack us.”

General Cheng snorted.  “You in the PLAN have already smashed four American carriers,” he said.  “Can’t you smash two more?”

“The situation is different,” Commodore Qiu said.  He paused.  “Oh, and one of the carriers was a light British carrier.”  General Cheng gave him an acidic look.  “The Americans in the other battle were under strict orders not to fire first, which is why we got in so heavy a blow in the first shot.  This second American group has orders to fire as soon as it sees us, so…it could get a little tricky.”

General Cheng snorted again.  “That’s no concern of mine,” he said.  “My concern is to march on to Townsville.”

Commodore Qiu blinked.  “Do you have any idea just how far it is from here to Townsville?  It’s not going to be easy and it will cost us a great deal of fuel.”

“I am aware of the logistics involved,” General Cheng said.  “However, you must be aware that the prime requirement of this operation is to knock Australia out of the war and therefore induce the Americans to sue for peace.  The diplomats have made their approach to the Australians and the Australians have told them to fuck off – literally.”

Commodore Qiu laughed, despite himself.

“And so our priority is to force the Australians to the bargaining table as quickly as possible,” General Cheng snapped, ignoring the younger man’s laugh.  “Those are our orders from the Party; we are to defeat the Australians as quickly as possible, before it turns into summer.”

“You may have a point, General,” Commodore Qiu said.  He might as well enjoy pricking the General as much as possible.  “The original plan, however, called for thrusting around the perimeter of the continent with heavy support from naval forces…”

“Which are tied up escorting convoys of men and material,” General Cheng said.  He took a long breath.  “I have given you a great deal of leeway Admiral…and you have carried out your task with near-perfection.  However, I am the supreme commander of this invasion and I will decide on how the plan is to be modified in the face of the enemy, as we both knew would be necessary when we drew up the plans.”

“Of course, sir,” Commodore Qiu said.  The reminder that he held a temporary rank galled him, as it was meant to do.  “What are your orders?”

General Cheng nodded at the younger man’s submission.  “What is the current status of the city’s defences?”

“We have three air defence units in the docks and two more floating outside it, backed up by several portable radars we flew in and several dozen SAM batteries,” Commodore Qiu said.  “The Merlin aircraft, at least, can operate from the heliport at the docks, so we do have some air support, although I have taken the precaution of moving the tanker out of the docks as quickly as possible.”

General Cheng frowned, and then nodded; the danger of an LNG explosion within the docks was almost as great as that of a nuclear blast.  If an Australian was feeling suicidal, he could take out the tanker and take out most of the docks, along with much of the invasion force.  The docks had a permanent CAP of jet fighters on rotating patrol; nothing was to be allowed anywhere near them without permission.

“We have managed to assemble several hundred trucks and their drivers to support our advance,” Commodore Qiu continued.  That was luckier than it seemed; an entire support unit had gone down at sea to a submarine attack, incidentally damaging his logistics.  “The drivers are…less than happy about their service, so I have taken the precaution of rounding up their families and handcuffing them to the steering wheel, as we did back in the northern campaign.  Those military personnel that we have managed to catch will be kept in a prison camp and barred access from the outside, so they won’t be a threat, but there are still renegade soldiers out there.”

“Our furthest point of contact is at Pine Springs,” General Cheng said slowly.  The roads had to be secured; the Austrians had not only ruined the railways, but had much more…intimate knowledge of the countryside.  “Once we have sufficient reserves landed, we will attack outwards and prepare for a major offensive.”  He looked up.  “By then, I expect us to have fighters operating from Australians airports and parachutists ready to support a thrust against Australian positions, understand?”

“Of course, General,” Commodore Qiu said.  It would be difficult, if not impossible, to actually have the airfields up and running in time, but he could try the best he could.  Failure was not an option; if China lost the many thousands of first-line soldiers committed to Australia, the defeat would have heads rolling…and his would be first in line.  “I shall see to it at once.”

He glanced up as another aircraft thundered across the sky, heading down for a landing in the airport.  It was a captured aircraft from Indonesia, one that had been part of the country’s small national airline, and ordinarily, he would have preferred to have not had it anywhere near the airport.  Needs must, however; there was no choice, but to move in as many supplies as possible before a counterattack could be organised to attack them.

He smiled.  The original plan, the one that he had designed, called for merely securing a large part of the northern territory and then preparing to repel the inevitable counter-offensive.  He would not allow General Cheng’s quest for glory to ruin his plans to ensure that China – and the PLAN – went into the remainder of the century as a superpower.  It would skyrocket his career over all the doddering old men in the upper ranks of the PLAN; had they been allowed to run the invasion, the Australians would have defeated them by now…and China would have been humiliated.  Old men were the curse of the Chinese armed forces…

After all, Commodore Qiu himself was only forty.

***
“Bleeding hell,” Sergeant Kelly muttered, as he positioned himself under a massive piece of shrubbery in some poor bugger’s garden, “does nothing ever stop Neighbours?”

He could hear, distinctly, the theme tune as the occupants of the house sought refuge from the chaos outside.  The TV show had just adapted its scripts to make a note of the war – and how one of the characters had gone off to war – and then the invasion had come along to force the scriptwriters to change their scripts, yet again.  Kelly didn’t watch Neighbours – although he was sure that the lucky young Chinese microlight pilot had had an eyeful of one of the older stars – but he was convinced that the star of the war stories was not currently freezing his arse off watching the aircraft.

He had been separated from his unit during the chaos at Darwin and had been attempting to make his way out of the city to the rendezvous point when he had realised that the Chinese were trying to find and catch soldiers.  Quickly, he had hidden from them and made his way through the city, trying to escape, before realising that it was almost impossible.  He had met up with three other soldiers, one of whom had been an air defence operative…and they had hatched a plan.  After spending an uncomfortable night sheltering in a derelict house, they had made their way towards the airport, looking for a possible vantage point.  Kelly had found his in a rich bloke’s garden…although he suspected that the man was currently regretting his decision to remain in the city, rather than running for his life.  The Chinese would probably not be impressed with his money.

Darwin had had more and more airliners coming in as the airport grew older; there had actually been plans to expand it, although the money to actually begin work had been difficult to find because of the economic problems and tension caused by the Chinese actions in Indonesia.  There had been fears of an accident for years, Kelly knew, even though there had been no accidents for a long time.  Certainly, the presence of the RAAF personnel had helped that…although it had done little for properly value when war had started to loom.  Even rich blokes could see the writing on the wall sometimes.

Kelly bowed his head as a helicopter lifted into the air and floated out over the city.  The Chinese were big on performing patrols; they had actually broken up a looting gang by firing down at them from a helicopter, and then pouring in infantrymen.  The ordinary citizens were under a curfew; anyone who came out in the darkness, the Chinese had warned them, was likely to be shot.  The helicopter drifted on…as yet another heavy aircraft headed overhead, heading into the airport.

“Soon,” he muttered to himself.  It was all a matter of exercising a little patience.  The SAM that he had been provided with by the other soldier was a small bit of kit; it wasn’t the most modern weapon in Australia’s arsenal.  Worse, there were known countermeasures…and a Chinese military aircraft would be bound to be armed with countermeasures…and waste the missile before it could be used on a proper target.  “Soon…”

The Chinese really were pushing it, he realised; they had landed dozens of aircraft over the last half hour, before launching the aircraft back into the air and sending them northwards again.  The scale of the operation stunned him, even as he watched Chinese soldiers jogging out of the city and heading towards the south…where he had been told the Chinese had set up a ring of steel surrounding Darwin.  No one, not even civilians, got to leave.  The Chinese weren’t playing games…and he had heard enough rumours about what happened to their captives to be determined not to fall into their hands.

He heard it almost before he saw it, the familiar sound of a massive jumbo jet, sweeping in from the north.  It was lower than he was used to, living in Darwin; the pilot might have been worried about enemy aircraft.  He checked his weapon, glancing around nervously for the helicopter, and readied himself.  It wouldn’t be long now before the aircraft appeared…

…And it appeared, thundering over the city, landing wheels already lowered as it fell towards the ground.  Kelly hit the missile activation switch, bringing up the missile’s seeker head; as he lifted it to his shoulders, he heard the noise that signified that the missile had managed to lock on to it’s target.  He waited, timing it with baited breath, knowing that it was a choice between running out of battery power and hitting the aircraft at just the right moment…and he fired, the missile lancing out of the launcher and heading directly towards the aircraft, which was almost about to land.  He didn’t stop to watch the fireworks; he tossed the launcher in the pond and fled for his life.  

He heard the explosion as the missile hit the aircraft…and then a second, much larger explosion, as the first explosion detonated several other aircrafts.  Even at his distance, he felt a wave of heat as the crashing jet slammed into the ground and smashed into the Chinese position; he wondered, just for a moment, how long it would take the Chinese to get the airport back up and running after that.

A voice shouted a question in Chinese; he realised with a jolt that he had almost run into a Chinese patrol…and he was still wearing his uniform.  He had been warned not to be caught out of uniform, but at the moment, he would have preferred to have been a dumb citizen.  Instead, he drew his pistol and fired two quick shots back towards the Chinese, before ducking down an alley and running.  He heard a yell behind him, but he wasn’t sure if he had hit anyone, or if the Chinese were merely in hot pursuit.  He heard shooting in the distance, and then a third explosion; he glanced towards the airport as he came out of the alley and saw a mighty torrent of flame, rising higher and higher into the sky.  The sight was awesome and chilling, all at the same time; he had done all that!  The Chinese would never feel safe in Darwin again.

A shot rang out.  By the time he realised that it was being fired at him, he was already dead and bleeding on the ground.

***
“I want a full sweep around the airport,” Commodore Qiu snapped.  The devastation defied belief; he didn’t think that a nuclear blast would have caused so much damage.  There had been seven aircraft on the ground, all of which had been destroyed…and the resulting blasts had caught the vehicles that he had had moved to the airport to protect it.  The wreckage would take weeks to clear up.  “Round up everyone, and I mean everyone, within a kilometre of the airport and move them to a refugee camp.”

“Yes, sir,” the guard commander said.  He had clearly been expecting the blame; the PLAN and PLA operated on the ‘shit flows downhill’ principle.  “I shall see to it at once.”

General Cheng glared at him.  They had been lucky to survive.  “Safe, eh?”

Commodore Qiu frowned.  Several words came to mind, but none of them would have helped his career.  “We will recover from this,” he vowed, although he wasn’t sure how.  Without the large airport, shipping in supplies would become much more difficult…and dangerous.  “We won’t allow this to cripple us.”

“I hope you’re right,” General Cheng said.  “As I see it, we just lost a large fraction of our ability to airlift forces in…and unless you can keep the sea lanes open…”

He didn’t say anything else.

He didn’t have to say anything else.

Chapter Thirty: Divide and Conquer, Take One

Paris, France

“You must understand, this individual has not come as part of a joint approach,” Fedya Molotin said.  The Russian Foreign Minister tented his fingers in front of his face.  “In fact, my very presence here is a matter of secrecy, not just from the Americans, but from the vast majority of my own government and indeed the remainder of the Pact of Opposition.  The…discovery that this meeting was even considered, let alone the fact that it took place, could have grave repercussions for the world.”

And I can believe as much or as little of that as I like, Marcel Yacef thought.  The President of France took another sip of his tea.  There were tea shortages across the world these days; China and India simply weren’t exporting any outside their own borders.  A French newspaper had joked that the British would be on the verge of surrender within a week, but the truth was more serious; food supplies across France, Europe and even America had been seriously dislocated by the war.

The irony made him scowl, even as the Russian looked nervous, wondering what would happen next.  He, the Arab member of the National Front, committed to dismantling some of the socialist polices that had made France economically uncompetitive for a generation, had been forced to institute food rationing and even food entitlement cards.  There was no choice, of course; the food supplies had to be distributed evenly…or France would head for the barricades.  Again.  Some of his advisors, whose job it was to think the impossible, had wondered what would happen when France reached the breaking point, but Yacef had no answers for them.  All he knew was that it would be bad.

The Russians had a large army camped in Germany and tens of thousands of refugees had fled across France’s borders into France.  Thousands of young men had been called up into the army, which had so many volunteers and recruits that it was becoming harder to give them all adequate training.  If France had a year, Yacef knew that the European position would become invulnerable; by then, the British and French would be churning out more Eurotanks and there would be more American soldiers to reinforce the line.  That was something he didn’t dare tell the people; the Russians would learn about it…and they might do something desperate.

“I understand,” he said, after just long enough to make the Russian nervous.  Strictly speaking, he hadn’t been intending to meet the Russian personally, but a life-long dislike of diplomatic bullshit had led him to decide to cut through the red tape and meet the Russian emissary.  There was no need to make it easy for him, however; the failure of the peace talks meant that they were still at war.  “You may speak freely.”

And you, Russian, can believe as much or as little of that as you like, Yacef thought.  The Russians clearly had something in mind when they had asked for the meeting, but what was it?  Yacef remembered that, six months ago, they had attempted to force France to default on her treaty obligations…and, if they had left the former government alone, they might have gotten their wish.  Yacef would listen to the Russian – he owed France that much – but he would make no promises.

The Russian spoke almost nervously.  “You must understand that there have been certain developments recently that have called into question the Pact’s…rightness in being sucked into the war,” he said, a piece of bullshit if Yacef had ever heard any.  He had sat through entire sessions with the pre-war government where less bullshit had been said.  “In particular, there were the damaging claims made by Polish insurgents, claiming that we had forced Prime Minister Molobo to serve as a stooge for Russian interests.”

Yacef lifted an eyebrow.  The Molobo recording had found its way out onto GNN, where it had quickly been picked up by American and European broadcasters, and then placed onto the Internet.  It had found thousands of believers, not least Poles who had fled the country and had found themselves strangers in a strange land.  The French Army would have an entire Polish regiment again soon, the first since Napoleon.  The news that the Russians had been plotting the war for years had done much to strengthen pro-war feeling; few people were being merciful to politicians who had left EUROFOR weak and divided.   Several British MPs had been thrown out of office, other Germans had been lynched…those who had survived the Russian missiles at the start of the war.  Death by missile, as had happened to EUROFOR’s high command, had probably saved them from dishonour.  The inquest would take months, if not years…

…But Yacef knew that his government could not be blamed for it.  Politically speaking, the first fragmentation of the National Front had made it impossible for the National Front to win a major election for years, which had weakened some of the darker sides of the Party…and had rendered them blameless.  Yacef had already started a major reshaping of the French economy; the tarring and feathering of the remaining members of the old order would only make it easier.  Marshall Petain had gotten off lightly; those men would not.

“I imagine that that would have some effect on Russian willingness to continue the war,” he said carefully, wondering about how the Pact was viewed behind it’s own lines.  It was a matter of much speculation and little hard data; in Russia and China, it was as if the Iron Curtain had descended once again, even though the Internet made perfect control impossible.  India had suffered anti-nuclear riots when the first atomic bomb had detonated; only quick action by the government, blaming everything on the Chinese and the Americans, had prevented stronger unrest.  “How are your people taking the war, if I might ask?”

“The People are firmly behind President Lapotin, who brought them prosperity,” Molotin said.  Yacef heard the capital ‘P’ thudding into place.  He had always thought that there was something wrong with anyone who referred to people as People; they tended to see the People as one group that could be forced into being what they wanted them to be.  “Perhaps more importantly, he has restored the pride of the Russian people in their own army and their ability to stand tall upon the world stage.”

He paused.  “So if you were hoping for an uprising in the rear, it’s not going to happen,” he concluded.  A nasty edge had entered his voice.  “Does that answer your question?”

“Pity,” Yacef said.  He looked out of his window, over towards the place where the Eiffel Tower had once stood.  No one was quite sure if the Russians had intended to hit the tower though spite, or if it had merely been an accident, but France was up in arms about it.  “So, why are you here?”

Molotin returned to looking uncomfortable.  “The Government of Russia would prefer to find a way of ending the conflict without further bloodshed,” he said.  “I have been charged with…discussing the matter with you, and sounding you out as to possible terms for a just and lasting peace.”

“I cannot say that I am surprised,” Yacef said.  He smiled thinly.  Part of him – he liked to think it came from his ancestors, who had been tradesmen in the marketplace – wanted to bargain, the other part reminded him that he might not have any of the coin the Russians wanted.  “You do know, of course, that there has already been a round of peace talks?”

Molotin flushed at the comment.  He had been there during the peace talks.  “Of course I knew that,” he snapped.  “You must understand that not all of the Pact members were negotiating in good faith!”

“I had worked that out,” Yacef said.  He stood up and paced over to the window, looking down on Paris.  Repair crews were working on clearing the debris caused by the fighting, others were servicing weapons and crew emplaced around Paris.  The French wouldn’t be caught napping again.  He turned slightly, allowing the sun to shine in his…visitor’s eyes.  “How do we know that you’re negotiating in good faith?”

Molotin seemed to calm slightly.  “I might point out that we have more to lose than you if the truth of this meeting were to come out,” he said.  Yacef knew that that was only half-true; if news of either peace initiative got out, there might be a major public demand for peace, even at a cost.  “I might also point out that both of us are…mature nations with a real understanding of power and how it works.”

Yacef stared at him, and then burst out laughing.  “You seek, then, to appeal to my French Pride,” he said.  He capitalised both words, making them a definite term.   “I must admit, that is not exactly the neatest diplomatic tool in the book.”

His eyes glittered.  “And anyone who rises to my level knows the difference between reality and propaganda,” he said.  “We know that we were delighted – privately, of course – when the Americans won the war on terror; the fact that we had carped in private was merely for public consumption.  Even in the dreams of the Far Right, or the nightmares of the Far Left, we are not a dictatorship where the dictator can become a victim of his own delusions and paranoia, like Stalin.  Pride is something that we use to cloak our actions, nothing else.”

Molotin looked unabashed.  “I was serious,” he said.  “Nations rise and fall, they grow and they mature.  France…has a long and – dare I say it? – proud history as a nation, one that has played the Great Game of Power since…well, when was it that France became a real nation?”

He didn’t wait for Yacef to reply.  “And Russia, too, has such a history,” he continued.  “The Germans have been though so much that they cannot be said to have a consistent history, while both the Chinese and the Indians are relatively new to world power.  You know, as we do, the consequences of the war growing out of control; they…do not.  They burn for revenge against America; we…merely want to make our mark again.”

Yacef said nothing for a long moment.  “In 843, depending on exactly where you stand,” he said finally.  “At the very least, that state approximated France’s historical territory.”

Molotin blinked.  “I beg your pardon?”

“When France became a nation,” Yacef said.  He needed time to think.  “Of course, there is much to be said for a historical argument that waits until the Sun King, or Armand Jean du Plessis de Richelieu, otherwise known as Cardinal-Duc de Richelieu, perhaps, or perhaps the Revolution and Napoleon could be considered a fair starting point.”

He leaned back and grinned.  “It depends on what you consider a nation, of course,” he said.  “One might even go so far as to argue that France was born when Charles de Gaulle was appointed President of France after the Second World War.”

Molotin narrowed his eyes.  “Is there a point to this?”

“Maybe,” Yacef said.  His voice hardened as he spoke.  “You are either attempting to flatter me with this childish nonsense or you actually believe what you’re saying.  I’m not sure which is worse.”

“Ignore the flattery for a moment,” Molotin said.  Yacef kept his face carefully blank.  “Let me be blunt.  There is a substantial faction within the Russian Government that wants to end the war.  There is a second faction that wants to continue the war until all of Europe is occupied.  Unknown to you, a major power struggle has been going on in Russia, made worse by the fact that the Chinese have invaded Australia and are winning.”

Yacef didn’t believe that.  He had actually gone through a briefing with Admiral Bellemare Vadenboncoeur, whose general conclusion was that the Chinese supply lines would be cut, sooner or later, and then they would just run out of supplies.  Australia was not a good place to fight a war, particularly one that depended on having plenty of equipment and supplies.  Admiral Vadenboncoeur had predicted that unless the Chinese had a way of beating the United States Navy without serious losses, they were going to lose.  Even if they managed to sink both American carriers for the loss of all of their fleet, they were going to lose.

“There has been a resolution, of a sort,” Molotin said.  His voice remained carefully blank, hiding his real feelings, whatever they were.  “The two sides have managed to agree on a compromise, which I have been charged with asking you about, a form of…agreement that will satisfy the requirements of both sides.”

“You’re using elliptical language again,” Yacef said.  “I assume that both sides have managed to agree on a possible face-saving formula for peace and prosperity.”  Molotin nodded.  Yacef felt suddenly impatient…and tired, deep inside, of the fighting.  “Fine, I understand you perfectly; what are you offering us?”

Molotin studied him for a moment.  “The agreement is simple,” he said.  “We – Russia – will withdraw from Germany and Poland.  Poland will be permanently demilitarised.  The Poles will be permitted a small security force to ensure internal stability, but they will no longer be a member of any military alliance, including EUROFOR or NATO.  Foreign troops, from either side in the war, will not be permitted to enter or garrison Poland and inspectors from both sides in the war will have free access to Poland to ensure that the terms are carried out.”

Yacef studied him for a long moment.  “Are you serious?”

“Oh, yes,” Molotin said.  He smiled thinly.  “The Baltic States, which were engaged in persecution of their Russian minorities, will remain autonomous states of the Russian Republic.  The Ukraine and Belarus will continue to be part of the CIS Military Defence Alliance; the new Ukrainian Government has agreed to this…and we will give the Irish Guards in the Ukraine safe passage back to Europe.”

“I see,” Yacef said finally.  He knew better than to think that that was the only problem; the Russians often had more than one sting in their tail.  “And the native populations?”

He had wondered, once, if the Russians had had a plan for the natives.  “Those who want to leave will be permitted to do so,” Molotin assured him.  Yacef concealed his bitter amusement; the last thing that anyone needed was more refugees.  Where would the thousands fleeing Russian control go?  Africa?  The very thought was ludicrous.  “Those who don’t want to leave will be safe at home, citizens of a new and strong Russian republic.”

He paused.  “We don’t expect the Americans to accept this and indeed were are not asking for an overall settlement,” he concluded.  “All we ask of you Europeans is that you refuse to permit the Americans to use your countries as a base of operations.”

“I repeat my question,” Yacef said slowly.  “Are you serious?”

Molotin leaned close; close enough so that Yacef could smell his breath.  “Yes, Mr President, and so should you be,” he breathed.  It was a mockery of eroticism.  Yacef had never been tempted to try sleeping with a man, but the sense of overwhelming nearness pushed him back.  “You see, there was one other thing I was told to tell you, in strictest confidence.  You may discuss it with the British and Germans, if you wish, but no one else.”

Yacef found his voice.  “What could be that important?”  He asked.  The desire to punch Molotin in the face was growing stronger; the Russian was starting to annoy him…and that was almost certainly the point. “And, more importantly, why should I do what you want?”

“You will understand in a moment,” Molotin assured him.  “You understand, one faction believed that we could keep what we had taken and tell you to go to hell, perhaps even march further west if you proved…intractable.  That faction wanted a price for the agreement to support the peace terms…and that agreement was the deployment of tactical nuclear weapons and an FSB firing team to the western front.  If something happens, perhaps a major clash that grows into a serious battle, there is a very real possibility that those weapons will be used.”

He held Yacef’s eyes.  “Do you understand now?”

Yacef thought cold thoughts.  He had been briefed on France’s nuclear arsenal, of course, which included tactical nukes and several types of launcher system, one of which was somewhat embarrassing; it was only capable of hitting German targets, or Spanish, or British.  The French had designed the weapon during the Cold War and simply kept it around afterwards; now, of course, that decision was starting to look prescient.  If there was a nuclear attack, the European leaders had already made one decision; there would be retaliation.

He wondered, grimly, if he had the ability to issue the orders.  There would be no time to wait for the British, or the Americans; they had the advantage of large bodies of water between them and the Russians.  It would have to be France that launched the nuclear counterattack…and it would have to be done quickly, before the Russians could take advantage of the confusion and panic, launching their thrusts into a destroyed country.  No, he would have to issue the orders and launch a counterattack.  

He said as much.  “You must understand that if nuclear weapons were deployed against us, there would be a counterattack,” he said.  His mind was spinning; he almost felt sick.  He had never signed up for any of this.  “We would deploy our nuclear weapons against targets in European Russia, if worst came to worst…and we could certainly destroy your army in Europe.”

“At the cost of destroying a chunk of Germany and France,” Molotin pointed out dryly.  He stood up, preparing to leave the room.  “Who would win then, I wonder?”

Chapter Thirty-One: Divide and Conquer, Take Two

Washington DC, USA

The briefing room, for once, was packed; everyone wanted in on the victory, from the State Department to the Department of Homeland Security.  David Simmons remained near the rear of the room; his post as Special Adviser to the President didn’t entitle him to a chair.  He stood next to a group of wallflowers – advisors and assistants to the various principles – and watched as General; Armstrong outlined the results of the short and brutal battle of Cuba.

“Once Air Supremacy was assured, tactical strike aircraft flying out of Florida provided assistance to the defenders of the naval base by launching major strikes against the Cuban forces besieging the base,” General Armstrong said.  The military intended to milk the victory for all they could get; despite Iceland, far too many Congressmen and Senators were pounding the military for the defeat at Taiwan and the successful Chinese landings in Australia.  “The Cuban forces had neglected to take more than a few basic precautions against air strikes and forward tactical air controllers were able to see to the destruction of most of the Cuban force.  Marines and reinforcing units from the base were able to secure a safe zone around the base – and, incidentally, take thousands of survivors prisoner.”

He paused.  “At the same time, targets according to the Standard Integrated Operations Plan (Cuba) were struck, a total of one thousand targets of civil, military and political worth,” he continued.  “Under the variant of the plan we used, Cuban utilities were spared, although in many cases die-hard regime supporters destroyed or damaged them before they could be secured.  The vast majority of the strikes were successful and the net result has been the almost complete collapse of the regime before we landed a major force of troops.”

He grinned.  “A force of Airborne soldiers secured the airport near Havana and reinforcements were flown in overnight,” he said.  The display updated itself again.  “There was no attempt to counterattack and when the force started to probe its way towards Havana, resistance melted away.  The landing of Marine units at other vital locations around Cuba merely completed the disintegration; the senior surviving Cuban military officer, General Hector Jimetz, surrendered what remained of his forces as Havana fell.  That surrender instruction was broadcast throughout Cuba and most of the remaining Cuban units either surrendered to the nearest American unit or broke up and went home.”

A cough interrupted him.  “Mr President,” a Senator said, “would you not agree that vast and overwhelming force, resulting in a vast number of civilian deaths, was used in the invasion?”

Simmons concealed a smile.  With constant polls suggesting that three-quarters of the country would support a nuclear strike on Panama or Venezuela, the Senator was pushing it, even if he did come from California.  He probably wouldn’t keep his seat past the coming elections; his opponent was already hurting him over security issues at Camp Pendleton.

“Senator, might I remind you that Cuba was launching missiles towards Florida when we invaded?”  The President asked.  “The safety and protection of each and every citizen in the country comes first.”

There was a pause.  “Continue, please, General,” the President said.

“The plans for the Occupation were drawn up in 2000 and revised in 2007, following a cold assessment of the successes and failures in Iraq,” General Armstrong said.  “As additional units, many of them with dozens of Spanish-speaking soldiers, were flown in, we rapidly expanded and secured our hold on the streets.  We clamped down hard on looting – a considerable amount of looting occurred on the first day of the invasion, but we were able to prevent a repeat – and fought to convince workers to get back to work, particularly those who work in the utilities.  We were aided by the fact that we clearly had a large Cuban exile group with us and they were very vocal in convincing Cubans that they were safe, now.

“Much of the Cuban Army was either destroyed or dissolved,” he continued.  “We have adopted a policy of rounding up and recruiting as many of the common soldiers as we can, although in some cases this has meant that we have vast numbers of untrained recruits bumbling about.  The provisional authority has started to put them to work already on repairing war damage and they’re being paid in American dollars.  Although we expect that it will be at least a year before Cuba is back to anything reassembling normality, we intend to successfully place control of Cuba in the hands of Civil Affairs units and reserve forces, mainly from Florida, allowing us to move units southwards for the counterattack on Panama.”

A different Senator waved for attention.  “General, what about the weapons of the Cuban Army?”

“Many, indeed almost all, of their heavy weapons were either destroyed or secured,” General Armstrong said.  “The Cubans actually kept pretty good records of weapons purchases – they clearly purchased quite a bit from the Pact – and we have accounted for most of the weapons.  The smaller weapons are a harder problem; many of them went home with soldiers, almost all of whom refuse to talk about them.  They could have tossed the weapons in the nearest bin or they might have kept them under the bed; given the prominence of organised crime on Cuba, some of them will probably find their way into the hands of gangs.”

He paused.  “Castro’s successors allowed various Caribbean groups to operate from Cuba, many of whom have arrest warrants made out for them by an entire set of nations, from us to the British and France,” he said.  “We hope to round most of them up, but several hundred tried to flee by boat and sailed right into the teeth of the navy.  They will be held in camps until we sort them all out and see who has been charged with what by who.”

“Good,” the President said.  He glanced around the table, playing politics; he met Simmons’ eye for a second.  “What about the dangers of a counterattack organised by Venezuela?”

General Armstrong smiled.  “We have control of the air right over the Caribbean, both through land-based and carrier-based aircraft,” he said.  “A handful of Venezuelan jets came out to play and were promptly shot down; others have kept their distance from us and are attempting to run CAP patrols over both Venezuela and Panama.  They’re not even close to safe there, but we have ignored them for the moment.”

He paused, for effect.  “The only real danger from Venezuela is the organisation of an underground resistance,” he concluded.  “The Cubans, sensibly enough, refused to allow the development of an underground army before we invaded and there are no signs that the Venezuelans ever tried to organise one without permission.  Although that does remain a danger, we have Cuba under quarantine and – for the moment – a great deal of prestige in Cuba.  We will have a few months, at least, to get established and to begin working to make Cuban lives better and more democratic.”

Simmons nodded to himself.  The Cuban Lobby would see to that; they had been preparing funds and aid packages since before the war had actually begun, in hopes that one day America would liberate their nation.  In the long run…he wondered, grimly, just how effective they would be; the exiles had been born in the United States and had little in common with the natives.  How long would it take for the seeds of democracy to take root in Cuba?

“I believe that the military deserves a vote of thanks,” a Republican Senator said.  He gave the President a look that suggested that there would be a price tag involved somewhere.  “There remains, however, the problem of insurgents on our own soil.”

Simmons scowled.  There had been some major riots and civil unrest in parts of America, mainly in Hispanic and Chinese areas, where racists and people who had lost friends in the bombings had sought to take it out on the Hispanics.  The strife had been brutal, and it had become worse when a Hispanic gang marched into a Chinese area, seeking revenge for the framing of other Hispanics.  The Mexican border had been firmly sealed, but in at least three cases, genuine American citizens had been manhandled and forced into Mexico by volunteer forces, just on the assumption that anyone who looked Hispanic was an illegal immigrant.  The chaos in Mexico had killed one of those unfortunates before he could be extracted.

The Director of Homeland Security coughed.  “You will understand that there are some details that cannot be discussed openly,” Bob Greer said.  It was not a popular sentiment, judging by some of the reactions; one Senator muttered ‘cover up’ under his breath.  “However, I am pleased to inform you that many of the terrorists have been rounded up and caught; at least one of the groups was caught before attempting to blow up the Hoover Dam with a home-made cruise missile.”

He glanced around the room.  “There has been an unprecedented amount of support and cooperation from every government agency,” he continued.  “Despite that, there has been a vast amount of false leads and miscellaneous information to wade through, some of it misleading, others intended to make us waste our time.  A number of prominent and public Hispanic groups, named by terrorists as hotbeds of insurgency, have turned out to be innocent, intended to force us to make racial tensions hotter.  The degree of cooperation we have received from Hispanic groups, in particular, has made a nasty situation much easier to handle; it’s a far cry from the war on terror.”

He nodded towards the map on the wall.  “Although there is no way that we can guarantee it, we believe that we have rounded up most of the subversives that were inserted into our society,” he said.  “Most of them turned out to have been Mexican; those who have talked claim that they were trained in a camp in Mexico and were then smuggled across the border with a great deal of cash.  Some of them took on illegal employment; others lived on what they were given, until they got the signal to attack.  Only a few of them had specific targets, such as Camp Pendleton; most of them just had orders to spread terror.”

And they had, too, Simmons knew.  One of them had gone on a shooting rampage in Washington, another had poisoned a batch of hard drugs and killed thousands of addicts, provoking a brutal underworld struggle.  A man had sniped for nearly half an hour in Virginia, while yet another had bombed a railroad and killed hundreds more; others had failed in their plans and been caught.  Some of those captured by civilians hadn’t survived the experience.  Gun control activists were being pilloried in the streets; some of the attacks could have been prevented if nearby civilians had been armed.  That, too, was something that would change the country forever.

“The great problem, as during the terror war, remains the task of locating and destroying the remaining networks,” Greer concluded.  He looked around the room.  “I won’t delude you; that will be a hard, if not impossible, task…and there will be no way to ensure that we have destroyed them all.  The controls placed on movement within the country will certainly ensure that mounting an attack becomes much harder, but it cannot be pushed enough that there are few ways to prevent a determined and suicidal attacker from putting thousands of lives at risk.”

“Thank you, Mr Greer,” the President said.  He looked briefly at the Majority Whip.  “The war situation has taken a grim turn in the Far East…except, perhaps, we have an opportunity for a decisive victory there.  General?”

General Armstrong stood up again.  It should have been the Chief of Naval Operations, but he was recovering after one of the bombs had almost killed him, putting him in hospital instead. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff would have to do…and, at least, he knew what he was talking about.  Simmons had met far too many people who hadn’t had the slightest idea what they were talking about.

“Three days ago, Chinese forces launched a surprise attack upon Australia,” General Armstrong said.  “Although there were warnings, the Australians found themselves grappling with an impossible task in protecting thousands of miles of coastline, particularly with the Pact’s local naval superiority.  The Chinese landed, we believe, the equivalent of Third Corps and managed, after a long battle, to secure Darwin and the docks there, which they are using to bring in reinforcements.  It may look bad on the map, and it is bad, but it offers us an opportunity.”

The display altered.  “The Chinese have been having problems shipping their supplies across to Australia,” he said.  “This is, in some ways, a worse problem than we have in the Atlantic; Chinese convoys have to be within a certain location and they have to get the right amount of supplies over because they cannot count on the locals.  There was a major disaster in Darwin itself when a resistance team destroyed a large part of the International Airport there; that could only have put a further crimp into their plans.  As you can imagine, our submarines have been attacking the Chinese convoys and the PLAN has been forced to devote more and more resources to covering the convoys from attack.  This has actually placed a large portion of the Chinese fleet within striking distance.”

A blue arrow marched across the display.  “We have two carriers and over fifty surface ships heading towards Australia,” he said.  A dull rumble ran around the room.  “That force has enough firepower to sink most of the Chinese ships in those waters, and cut the lines to Australia once and for all.  If the Chinese accept battle, we’ll slaughter them; if they refuse battle, we win without firing a shot.”

A Congressman stood up.  “I'm sorry, General, but that won’t do,” he said.  “How can you guarantee a victory?”

“Nothing is certain in war,” General Armstrong acknowledged.  “As that world-famous author put it, war is a democracy and the enemy – damn him – gets a vote too.  At the same time, there are definite reasons to expect a major victory…and even a draw works out in our favour.  The Chinese tend to depend too much upon land-based aircraft and the Australians took a bite out of them.  We also intend to deploy some new and interesting weapons in the battle, which will – hopefully – surprise the Chinese.  Bottom line, sir; if we crush the Chinese fleet and destroy the PLAN’s escort ships, then we can cut off the Chinese bases right across Indonesia and Australia.  Once that’s done…”

“Then we can win the war, or at least knock the Chinese down a few pegs,” the President said.  “That is, however, only one offensive; the other operations will be conducted almost simultaneously against Panama and Russia.”

General Armstrong nodded.  “Although we risked depletion of some of our stocks of advanced weaponry during the Cuban Invasion, we have enough massed now for a sustained series of strikes against the enemy positions in Panama and Venezuela, followed up by a Marine landing intended to occupy the Panama Canal and eventually open it up to our shipping again.  What little is coming out of Panama City suggests that the Venezuelans are purging every last trace of the old order, which means that a liberation might not be unwelcome, but frankly…our main priority is to secure the Canal.  Again, we will put in Civil Affairs units and reserve battalions in order to free up the Marines for other tasks, but Panama may take much longer than Cuba to recover.

“As for Operation Vengeance…”

“The details of Operation Vengeance are classified,” the President said shortly.  “All we can really say is that we hope it will bring Russia to the bargaining table with a more…realistic appreciation of how much the Pact can get out of the war of aggression that it has launched.”

“Yes, Mr President,” General Armstrong said.

The President smiled.  “Are there any questions?”

“I have received numerous enquiries from my constituents about the status of prisoners of war held in China,” Congressman Lee said.  The elderly southerner, who claimed descent from Robert E. Lee, glowered around the room.  “There is grave…concern that they may be mistreated, particularly with the fact that most of them have disappeared from our TV screens.  We lost POWs in Vietnam, Mr President; can you guarantee that you are working to recover those people?”

The President’s face flickered.  Simmons understood; any mention that there was a rescue mission in the works would certainly get back to the Chinese, and yet…it was not something that could just be pushed aside for later.  It would have to be handled, somehow, with care…and there seemed no easy way to do it.  What was right or wrong, when a single word out of place could lead to a disaster?

“The position of this government is that we will settle for nothing less than the complete return of each and every prisoner of war, and if they are mistreated, we will hold the Chinese government responsible,” the President said.  “That, Congressman, has not changed, nor will it change.”

He paused.  “But at the same time, one of our people is far more valuable to us than one of their people is to them,” he said.  His face darkened.  “We will work on finding a way of either trading prisoners or having the prisoners interned in a neutral country, but frankly I do not expect that we will see them back in the USA until the end of hostilities, one way or the other.  The Chinese know that we have fewer trained people than we would like, Congressman; it would be foolish to expect them to agree to cut their own throats and return our people.”

Chapter Thirty-Two: A Poke in the Eye With a Sharp Stick, Take One

Near Murmansk, Russia

It was cold.  Very cold.

The Combat Information Centre on the USS William Jefferson Clinton was warm, but Admiral Barbara Kinninson felt cold as the task force made its long way towards Russia.  They had been sailing for nearly a week, almost before the Chinese had launched their invasion of Australia, out for a little revenge after Russian attacks had damaged or sunk American ships.  Barbara was certain, as certain of anything as she had been in her life, that the Russians had her force under surveillance; they had certainly made no real attempt to disguise their presence.

Not, she reflected, that that would have been possible.  The entire region had become a Russian stomping ground again, after President Lapotin had pushed the Russians into revitalising their fleet.  He had concentrated on nuclear submarines – the submarines that were even now wrecking havoc on American and Allied shipping – but there had been a great deal of investment in surface ships and aircraft as well.  Barbara had watched as Russian aircraft had attempted to kill her ships during the First Battle of Iceland; there was no way that she would underestimate their determination to sink her ships and destroy her fleet.  There was enough firepower in her fleet to destroy the entire Northern Fleet; the Russians would almost certainly be plotting to engage her as far from the land as they could.

They had sailed from their station near Iceland and headed towards Norway, taking the time to add their Joint Strike Fighters to the battered Norwegians Air Force as it struggled to repel a handful of Russian raids.  More and more, the Russians were being called the Soviets; an old nightmare had returned to haunt the human race.  The Russians might not now be communists, but the regime of President Lapotin was as dark and unpleasant as any other fascist state.  The hints of elements of a free market, free competition, only made it worse.

“I have the latest satellite images,” Commander Sanchez informed her, coming over to present her with a computer display.  The global network had been seriously battered; the Russians had been determined to keep American eyes from probing their borders.  They were better at misdirection than Americans – every intelligence officer learned about how the Russians had convinced the Americans that the missile gap was in their favour – and they had plenty to hide.  “As you can see, the Russians are waiting.”

Barbara nodded grimly.  The Russians had once had a series of closed cities – sealed communities – in Murmansk, and indeed right along their northern coastline.  Now, they had almost completely sealed off the entire region, from the Finnish border right down towards St Petersburg.  America at its worst had nothing to compare to it; the inhabitants of the entire region were watched, monitored and treated as prisoners within their own land.  Russia had returned to the police state of Stalin’s era…with the added and dangerous advantage of new technology.

One question, at least, had been answered; the Russians had more Backfires, Bears and even Blackjacks than had been expected.  A Blackjack was a true intercontinental bomber; on several occasions in the last year, Blackjack aircraft had probed the borders of Canada’s air defence network, which was part of the entire North American Early Warning Network.  Only a handful of Russian Blackjacks had been seen so far; Barbara had wondered if the Europeans had destroyed more of the aircraft than they had thought.  They hadn’t.

“Launch the ready fighters,” she ordered.  There were already twelve fighters running a Combat Air Patrol over the fleet, along with a tanker and two AWACS.  There was enough radar capability there to pick up a single bird, although she was still worried about other microlights.  Had the Russians pressed them into service as well, even in the bitterly cold Russian climate?  “Order the CAP to tank…and prepare the remainder of the aircraft for immediate launch.”

“Yes, Admiral,” the CAG said.  Barbara could sense it as the aircraft, already waiting for launch on the flight deck, launched themselves into the air.  She had most of her aircraft from both carriers, the Clinton and the USS George Washington, prepared for an antiaircraft role, but twelve of her Super Hornets were armed with the latest antiship missiles.  If the Russian Fleet showed itself outside the harbour, with the massive layers of protection that the Russians had built up around the region, she intended to hit it hard…

As it happened, she had brought along another surprise for the Russians, if they stayed in their pen…

The satellite images had been barely five minutes old.  She thought rapidly, considering her options; how long would it be before the Russians launched their main strike against her ships.  She couldn’t see them waiting for her to sail right up to knock on their door; no one was sure how capable the Russian air defence network was these days.  The old Voyska PVO had been feared, but after a commercial pilot had flown a light aircraft all the way to Moscow, everyone had laughed at it.  Mathias Rust had had embarrassed the Soviet Union…and the successor governments had invested billions of roubles in the new system.  No one was laughing now.

The dance was as old as American-Russian rivalry.  Like the Battle of Iceland, both sides knew all the moves, from endless wargames and preparations for the long-feared American-Russian War.  She’d cheated in the Battle of Iceland by introducing a new weapons system; the Russians…might have invented a new weapons system of their own, or perhaps they had invented a counter for the Batmen.  It hardly mattered; there were no Batmen with her fleet, not now.  They were needed in Europe.  Instead…

Her eyes lit on an icon on the fleet display.  The Baghdad was a new ship, only a year old, and untested in battle.  The principle was sound, Barbara knew…but practice and training trumped theory every time, as far as she was concerned.  The Russians…unless the FSB had gone out of business, the FSB might well know what she was…and even if they didn’t, the concept was hardly a new concept.  In many ways, it was a weapon built to fight one war, sent to fight a very different kind of war.

“We have some additional enemy aircraft being launched now,” Commander Sanchez said.  The display flickered and zoomed in; the Russians would have fainted from shock if they had known how good the cameras were on each of the drones.  The Russians were unaware that she could literally count the scratches on the hull of the Russian AWACS being launched into the air, bringing its radars online to hunt for her force.  Other Russian aircraft were launching now, but the main strike force remained on the ground.  “They must be preparing their Combat Air Patrol first.”

Barbara nodded.  Opinions had differed on what aircraft the Russians would have committed to the defence of Murmansk.  One school of thought had believed that the Russians would not have committed anything more capable than a MIG-29, others had thought that the Russians would have committed MIG-35s or MIG-41s to the defence of a vital base.  As she watched, the answer became clearer; the Russians were launching MIG-29s into the air.

“We have tracks on at least thirty MIGs in the air,” the sensor officer said.  “There are now seventeen major radars operating, including two AWACS, holding well back and peering at us.”

“At ease,” Barbara said.  “It won’t be long before they come put to play.”

***
The flight control bunker at Murmansk was a miracle of modern Russian technology.  Admiral Daniel Sulkin had hated it on sight and kept hating it even though he was finally able to take a second crack at the American ships; the bunker just wasn’t the same as flying in his prototype Blackstar.  Higher authority, however, had determined on a second use for the prototype, and even a lofty Admiral had to bow before their demands.

He had been lucky not to have been stripped of his command, in the wake of the Battle of Iceland.  No one had seriously expected the Russian forces on Iceland to last longer than a few weeks at most, but Sulkin had picked up most of the blame, not least because the Navy’s successes just weren’t the same as the Army’s successes.  The Army had marched all the way to Berlin; the navy had lost a dozen priceless surface ships, two dozen submarines and forty expensive aircraft, showing only in return a high toll of American merchant shipping.  Sulkin blamed it on the Army; Russia had only recently aspired to be a major naval power and the Army still dominated the budgets.  As it was, he had been dumped in a hole; he would almost sooner have been sent to count trees.

He had tracked the American fleet since before it had left Iceland, suspecting its destination even though the official American explanation had been that the fleet was intended to reinforce Norway and provide a commitment to the Norwegian Government of America’s determination to protect its northern ally.  Norway hadn’t really needed the protection; Sulkin knew that there were no major plans for anything beyond commando raids and air raids for any of the Scandinavian countries.  As long as Finland remained cowed, the countries could not be used as a base…and that meant they were minor problems.  If the war in Europe was won, they could deal with the Fins later; if not, why waste units trying to take Finland?

“The American fleet is on the radar screens, Admiral,” his aide said.  She had served on his Blackstar and he had brought her with him; she was almost a tactical genius with the equipment.  Many had thought that he was bedding her and he had encouraged the rumours; it gave her a certain amount of protection on the base.  “They are keeping most of their radars stepped down, but they have two AWACS orbiting over their ships and watching for trouble.”

Sulkin nodded.  The irony was that he could have attacked the American fleet several times…if he had the missiles to launch the strikes.  Many Russian missiles had been fired off during the first battles, and while thousands more were being produced, the production was taking time, far too much time.  He had a large number of missiles on the base, being loaded onboard his aircraft, but there would only be enough for one strike.  Worse, the Americans had shot down the recon satellite that was supposed to be providing him with additional information; it would be harder to locate the American carriers before it was almost too late.

He watched as powerful beams of Russian radars skimmed across the display.  The cursed American stealth aircraft had to be watched for…and the only easy way to do that was to have the radars set to trigger alarms at the slightest hint of their presence.  It had driven his men mad, more than once, with aircraft heading out to do battle with clouds, but he felt that there was little choice.  The motherland had to be protected.

“Good,” he said finally.  “Do we have tracks on their aviation ships?”

One of his carriers was in the Barents Sea, safe behind a network of mines and undersea traps for enemy submarines.  He envied the Americans their much larger carriers; he would have sold his soul for one of them, just for a chance to attack America directly.  There was no way that the small carrier force the Russians had built up could reach America; only one of them had even seen any combat action in the war, at Taiwan.  The Americans had sunk it.

“I believe so,” Natalya said.  She chewed at a strand of her long blonde hair.  Had Sulkin been younger, he might have bedded her anyway, no matter how useful she was.  As it happened, there was a dashing young paratrooper on the base, convinced that he was helping a girl to cheat on the commanding officer.  “We have definite tracks on the ships that are launching jet fighters.”

“Good,” Sulkin said.  He looked down at the update board.  Rules of engagement had been relaxed a lot since the war began; he was authorised to engage the enemy ships as soon as they entered firing range.  It made a change from the previous rules of engagement, when American probes had to be ignored unless they committed so glaring a breach of Russian airspace that they would embarrass even the Americans.  “Order the attack wings to launch and remind the Blackjacks of the rules covering their deployment.”

The Blackjacks were the only real strategic bomber the Russian Air Force possessed.  His orders had been explicit; the supersonic bombers were to remain behind, close in to launch their missiles and then run for their lives.  No exceptions; get in, land a punch, then run.  The Blackjacks had reached the most dangerous part of their service; they were literally too important to risk.  If the war did go nuclear, completely nuclear, they were a vital part of Russia’s nuclear striking force.

He smiled as the first wave of aircraft lifted into the air.  “It’s time to hit them hard,” he said.  Finally, he would be revenged for the Battle of Iceland.  “Order the raid commander to fire when ready.”

***
“We just had a report from one of our escorts, Admiral,” the ASW officer said, as a burst of water splashed into the sky.  The cameras on the Clinton saw, just for a moment, the shape of a Russian submarine exploding into little pieces.  Barbara almost pitied them; they would be lucky to survive more than a few moments in the freezing water.  “They have encountered and sunk a Russian submarine in close proximity.”

“I noticed,” Barbara said dryly.  She wondered absently if the Russian had been trying to position himself for an attack, or if it had just been an unlucky coincidence.  She would not have bet money on the latter.  “This close to their naval base, there are bound to be a few more craft lurking nearby…”

“Admiral, we have a major aircraft launch from the air bases,” the sensor officer snapped.  His hands were dancing over his console.  “There are fifty-seven heavy bombers of all designs, heading into the air and forming up with the fighters, heading towards us.”

Barbara sat back and steepled her fingers.  She kept herself calm; she had faced a Russian missile attack before and knew that it was not to be as dreaded as the massive attack that had killed most of the Multinational Fleet and started the war.  The Russians had launched nearly a hundred and fifty aircraft into the air in total; some of them tankers to support their fighters, others jet fighters, staggering into the air under the weight of the missiles they carried.  The Russians would want to make each shot count…and they would have loaded the aircraft with all the missiles they could.

“Order the ready flight to move to intercept,” she ordered.  The Russians would have to be intercepted as far as possible from the fleet.  “Launch all of our remaining aircraft and bring the air defence network to full alert.  I want the air defence destroyers moving forwards, preparing to cover us from a missile attack.”  She paused.  “If any of their bombers or fighters come within Metalstorm range, kill the bastard.”

“Yes, Admiral,” the CAG said.  He paused.  There was a grim expression on his face, as if he had bitten into a worm in an apple.  “Admiral, it is possible that the MIG-29s are carrying missiles of their own intended to sink our ships.”

“Yes,” Barbara agreed.  It was possible; it was also something that she could do nothing to affect, not now.  Her pilots were rocketing off towards the enemy aircraft and it would be bare minutes before they reached weapons range.  “Sanchez, do we have the precise targeting data for Murmansk?”

“Yes, Admiral,” Sanchez said.  Many of the targets had been located long ago by American intelligence, but some of the targets had been unknown until they started to launch aircraft, or had started to light up radars or…had just been impossible to see until her force had launched its drones.  “We have adapted all five hundred targets and locked the weapons on them.”

Barbara smiled.  “It’s time to give the Russians a taste of their own medicine,” she said.  Her hand tapped her console, bringing up a firing control.  “Order the EW aircraft to begin jamming…now!”

“Jamming has commenced, Admiral,” the EW officer said.  He paused; no one was entirely certain how good the Russian sensors and radars actually were, particularly with the introduction of other Pact technology.  “The exact efficiency is unknown.”

“No matter,” Barbara said.  She tapped the firing control.  “Fire!”

Chapter Thirty-Three: A Poke in the Eye With a Sharp Stick, Take Two

Near Murmansk, Russia

Captain Mark Manganaro checked his ships quickly, and then hammered his hand down on the big red button that had formed in the centre of his display.  Like all NGW ships, the USS Baghdad had much more automation and remote controls than normal warships…and a much smaller crew; Manganaro commanded only thirty officers and men, which was bad news if enemy forces ever attempted to board the ship.  No American ship had been boarded since 2009, but no enemy forces were ever meant to get close to the Baghdad.  In a very real sense, she was the battleship of the future.

“Firing,” he said.

The Baghdad was a Monitor-class arsenal ship, one of three in the United States Navy.  It had been built during an era of increasing use of precision cruise missiles to strike targets at vast distances from Europe…and had never been intended to take part in a major sea battle at all.  A single arsenal ship, the makers had boasted, could wipe out an entire enemy force…assuming that the enemy force had no defences.  Even a defended fleet, however, could be badly mauled by an arsenal ship; Taiwan had proved that to everyone’s satisfaction.  Congress was already approving the money for more Monitors; Manganaro was charged with proving that the ship could be used in actual peer conflict.

The Baghdad carried over five hundred vertical launch systems…and one complete set of reloads.  As the order sped down through the ship’s datanet, the missiles started to launch from their tubes at the rate of one every ten seconds, heading upwards and spreading out towards their targets.  The rate of fire increased as the computers compensated for the shifting in the ship’s position; several missiles were launched at the same time as the firing rate increased sharply. The Russians…would see what looked like a wall of missiles racing towards them…and find themselves faced with an impossible problem.  

Manganaro grinned, watching the pattern unfold.  The Raytheon BGM-120 Slammer missile had been designed by a particularly evil-minded design team…and it showed.  Smaller than a standard Russian or Chinese cruise missile, it was not only faster than most cruise missiles, but packed a larger punch due to impressive and classified high explosive warheads.  Not designed to carry a nuclear warhead, the Slammer was almost impossible to intercept with anything, but Metalstorm…and it was even tricky to detect.  They were picking up speed as they raced towards their targets…and the Russians didn’t have a hope in hell of shooting down more than a handful of them before they reached their targets.

“Burn, you bastards,” Manganaro breathed.  His first chance to take his ship into battle had been a dramatic success so far.  “Burn!”

***
Admiral Daniel Sulkin felt his mouth fall open as the radar screen blanked out…then presented him with a sudden and entirely new range of threats; upwards of five hundred cruise missiles heading right towards the base.  He felt his blood run cold; if a single missile had a nuclear warhead, the devastation would be immense…and the defence network was having colossal problems struggling to lock onto the missiles to target them with counter-missiles.

He saw some missiles launching from their positions and knew that it would be too late.  The American missiles had closing speeds that were vastly greater than the Russian missiles; they would have only one chance to intercept the missiles before it was lost forever…and he could see, now, that only a few missiles would be shot down.  A hundred of the missiles had been targeted on the Northern Fleet as it cowered in its docks and would be almost unstoppable, even by the CIWS units on the ships.

“Sound the air raid warning,” he ordered.  The American ship had very likely shot itself dry in that massive barrage of missiles, but just in case – and perhaps out of a little spite – he added it to the targeting instructions for the aircraft heading towards the American fleet.  It was a chilling irony; his Blackjacks could have reached the American fleet much quicker, except that would have meant losing several of them to American fighters.  “Switch image to the cameras at the dock, northern view.”

The image appeared in front of him, the carrier Putin in the distance, surrounded by smaller units of the fleet and naked and vulnerable.  There was a moment’s blaze of fire around the ship as it attempted to defend itself, but there was a flickering echo of a missile’s presence…and then the carrier simply exploded.  Two more missiles completed the destruction of the once-proud ship…and then the other ships started taking hits of their own.  Some of the guided missile ships attempted to fire missiles back towards the American ships, but they had no direct targeting information and could only fire almost completely at random.  The devastation was almost total…

The display clicked back to the overall map.  It took Sulkin a moment to realise that the camera had been destroyed, perhaps along with large sections of the docks.  More and more targets were being hit, a swath of destruction marching steadily east; the ground shook violently as a missile impacted far too close to the bunker’s position.  The Americans clearly hadn’t known about the bunker, or they would have unleashed their fury on his position, but the real damage was terrifying enough.  The missiles were still impacting; one of them reached as far as an airbase he would have sworn was out of range.  He wondered, grimly; just how far could the Americans shoot from their position?

“Sir, the Raid Commander is requesting orders,” Natalya said grimly.  Sulkin allowed himself a moment of pure relief; he had half-expected to discover that the experts truly hadn’t known what they were talking about and all of the contacts with the outside world had been broken.  In any case, they might have to dig themselves out of the bunker; the American missile had come down right on top of the warehouse that concealed the entrance.  “His aircraft are approaching launch position and he wants instructions…”

Sulkin studied what remained of his position.  One of his AWACS had taken over the task of controlling the aircraft, but that aircraft would almost certainly be the first target for the Americans, assuming that they didn’t now intend to flee, having inflicted a telling blow on the motherland.  Worse, the Americans had devastated his airfields, which meant that even recovering the aircraft in the air would be difficult, and they might well lose aircraft that the motherland could ill do without.  He had to hit the Americans…and he had to do it hard enough to convince them that Russia wasn't as badly damaged as it had been damaged.

“Get a team to check out the coastal cruise missiles,” he ordered.  The Americans might have hit them or not; the link had been cut, but it was just possible that the Americans had missed the emplaced and camouflaged missiles.  “Order the Raid Commander to…continue the attack.”

He closed his eyes for a second.  “Oh, and call Moscow,” he said, knowing that it would mean the end of his career.  “Tell them that I need every tanker I can get and complete priority, just to save as many aircraft as we can from running out of fuel before we can get them to land.”

He continued to bark orders, knowing what it would mean.  Given long enough, they might be able to clear enough of an airfield to land the Bears, but landing the Backfires and the Blackjacks would be harder.  If matters didn’t go exactly right…then almost all of Russia’s capability for making strategic bombing raids had been wiped out in a day.

***
“The Russians are not breaking off,” Sanchez reported grimly.  The display still showed nearly two hundred Russian aircraft boring in, with American fighters racing to meet them.  “They’re closing in on us and will be launching missiles at any moment.”

Barbara nodded.  She hadn’t expected anything else; unless the missiles had killed the Russian commander, which wasn't impossible, the Russian would be struggling to recover what he could from the disaster that American arms had just inflicted on his soil.  The real post-battle assessment would take weeks, but the report from the drones had suggested that they had struck over ninety percent of their assigned targets…and most of the Russian Northern Fleet was burning in the Barents Sea.

“Order the aircraft to intercept,” she said.  The Russians would be launching soon; in their shoes, she would have launched the missiles and tried to break off by now.  “Move the support fighters into position to cover us against any missiles they launch.”

Sanchez nodded, and then cursed.  “We have missile launches, several missile launches,” he snapped.  “The Russian fighters have opened fire on our fighters!”

***
The Raid Commander was not given to panic.  He had trained as one of the crewmen for Russia’s handful of permanently nuclear-armed bombers and the prospect of the complete loss of the bases that supported his aircraft, while alarming, was not the disaster that it would have been for other commanders.  His units were bearing down on the American ships…and there was little time to contemplate extinction.

“The fighters are to engage,” he ordered.  “All missile-armed aircraft will release their missiles in…twenty seconds.”

He watched grimly as the American fighters rolled and scattered to avoid the missiles that the MIGs had unleashed, then turning to launch their own missiles towards the Russian fighters.  The Raid Commander had been utterly ruthless; the fighters would hold the Americans long enough for the aircraft to launch the heavy weapons under their wings.  He almost wished that the concept of nuclear-armed missiles had been applied to his aircraft, but the Russian Government had vetoed the instruction.  After what had happened to the bases on the ground, he suspected that that instruction would be changed rapidly.

Time was ticking down as the Blackjacks kicked in their afterburners and forced themselves forward at supersonic speed.  They would engage at their own range, joining the other craft in launching the single punch they were going to get, and then run for it.  Who knew; they might even get out of range before the Americans reacted.  The balance of fighting was tipped in the favour of the Americans; they not only had better technology, but they also had more aircraft.  It just wasn’t fair…

“Five seconds,” the Raid Commander said.  There wasn’t time to curse the Pact’s failure to build their own technology to the levels that the Americans and their allies enjoyed.  Raw numbers would have to win the day, except this battle was starting to look like the first battle the Pact had engaged in that it didn’t enjoy numerical superiority.  Time was ticking away rapidly…and the Americans had lost several of their fighters to his fighters, even as they cut through the Russian fighters to try to react to his bombers.  An American forgot the tail guns on a Bear; the gunner cut the American plane to pieces before the pilot could recover from the mistake.  “Three, two, one…fire!”

The antiship missiles the aircraft carried were the heaviest that Russia – or indeed the Pact – had produced that didn’t include a nuclear warhead.  Missiles like them bad produced a hot enough burn to seriously damage and destroy American carriers before; several of them hitting a carrier, the Raid Commander knew, would be very bad news for the carrier.  The Raid Commander considered it only fair that the Americans – too – had to walk home.  The missiles lanced away from the aircraft and he smiled; that, at least, would cause the Americans come trouble.

“All aircraft, bank away and evade contact,” he ordered, grimly aware that that was easier said than done.  A handful of American aircraft had tried to engage the missiles, the others had closed in and attempted to extract revenge, knowing that the fate of their carriers was no longer in their hands.  He saw a Bear struck amidships by an American missile and blown apart in a blast of fire, its killer hunting for other targets as the Russian aircraft disintegrated.  “Return towards the AWACS and…”

An American missile struck his aircraft.  He was dead before he knew what had hit him.

***
“We have sixty incoming missiles,” the weapons officer said.  “All point defence systems are engaging.”

Barbara drew in a breath.  Protection of the two carriers was the priority for the fleet, although the Baghdad came a close second; it wasn't an easy or cheap ship to build.  There was no longer much point in giving orders; the Russians would have their chance to hurt her ships.  As the missiles drew closer, she realised that most of them had been targeted directly on the carriers, although a handful seemed to be homing in on the air defence ships instead.  They had either been intended to distract her defenders, or perhaps they were just targeted on any large bodies of metal; after all, the Northern Fleet was burning wreckage and there were no other Russian ships in the region.

“I rather think that we have outstayed our welcome,” she said, slowly.  It was, perhaps, the understatement of the decade.  The Russians wouldn’t be very nice to any Americans they captured after this, whatever the Geneva Convention might have to say about the subject of treating prisoners.  “Fleet ops, start moving us out, away from the Russian coastline.”

“Understood, Admiral,” the officer said.  “Instructions are being issued now.”

The Russian missiles hit their first obstacle, missiles launched from the air defence units, blasting several missiles out of the sky.  One of the air defence destroyers risked exposing itself – too long – in taking down a missile that might have hit the Washington; a Russian missile blasted it and blew a massive breach into existence.  The wave of secondary explosions tilted the ship down…and then it exploded.

“Launch a SAR team with helicopters,” she snapped.  It was dangerous, perhaps throwing good money after bad, but she owed it to the crew of the ship.  They had risked everything to save her carriers.  “Report!”

Other missiles were shot down rapidly by the carrier’s own missiles, still others picked off by Metalstorm units…and then one missile detonated on the flight deck.  The Clinton’s flight deck was heavily armoured, with some emergency shielding added after what had happened to the Ford; through sheer luck, the missile detonated just a little too high.  A fireball raced across the deck and destroyed all of the aircraft on the deck, but the main body of the carrier was intact.

“Considerable damage to our radar and radio systems,” the bridge reported.  Barbara felt a moment of pure guilt; she had sent some of the helicopter crews to their deaths.  “Main command and control facilities passed to the secondary bridge…”

“Good,” Barbara ordered.  Seven ships had been hit by the Russians, three of them fatally…and they had to worry about landing the aircraft.  At worst, they could refuel them and send them to Norway, but she would have preferred to have recovered them on the Washington.  “Washington, can you recover aircraft?”

“The Russians seem to have retreated, Admiral,” the Captain of the Washington said.  “We should be able to take on most of the aircraft.”

Barbara nodded.  Given an hour, the fleet should be able to make its way out of the combat zone and back towards safer waters; they could meet up with Norwegian or even British units for additional safety.  It had, she was sure, been a victory.

***
The damage was appalling, even to someone who had expected it.  Admiral Daniel Sulkin stared out over a wrecked airfield, wrecked by Americans who had programmed their missiles with malice aforethought.  The runways had been thoroughly crated, and even though teams of engineers were already working on clearing the rubble and reopening the airfield, he knew that it wouldn’t be soon enough.  Most of his aircraft had had to be forwarded on to St Petersburg’s international airport; the foreigners in the city would doubtless be happy to present Washington with a post-battle assessment.  The damage…would have an effect on the war.  He dreaded to know what STAVKA would have to say about the destruction; someone would have to take the blame.

The destroyed airfields were only part of the problem.  The Americans had plastered submarine bays, which made it much harder to supply the submarines in the Atlantic.  They had destroyed much of the naval force in the north, which meant that they wouldn’t have to worry, any more, about a repeat invasion of Iceland.  They had certainly cost him around forty aircraft…and perhaps more if some failed to make a safe landing.  Fuel dumps, ammunition supply points…he understood, now, the despair that must have gripped the Germans and British when they had tallied up the damage caused by Russian cruise missiles.

Russia had plenty of older war material, but he needed the newer and more advanced equipment…and there wasn't enough of that to go around.  The STAVKA would be furious…and the real-life consequences would almost be worse.  If the Americans could do it once, where else could they sail one of those accused ships?  The Black Sea?  The Baltic Sea?  Where could they hit from the sea?  The war had just taken a turn that was very distinctly not in Russia’s favour…

“Admiral Daniel Sulkin?”

He knew what he would see before he turned round; two soldiers, each one wearing green shoulder blades.  “Admiral, by order of STAVKA, you are under arrest,” the leader said.  Sulkin noticed a second group of FSB soldiers leading his command staff, including a terrified Natalya, towards a helicopter; the entire group had been handcuffed to prevent resistance…and to rub in the fact that they were helpless.  There were rules for that too; everyone knew them.  “We are to escort you to Moscow.”

“Of course,” Sulkin said.  There was so much he could have said, asking why the FSB was working perfectly while the remainder of the armed forces were reeling, but he kept his mouth closed as they searched him roughly.  “I am at your disposal.”

“Your fate is in the hands of STAVKA,” the leader said.  “It is a matter of state security.”

Chapter Thirty-Four: A Poke in the Eye With a Sharp Stick, Take Three

Moscow, Russia

“This is not just a deliberate increase in tempo of the war,” Sergei Kirpichov snapped.  “This is a full and complete rejection of our offer of peace.”

General Aleksandr Shalenko kept his face blank.  The summons back to Moscow hadn’t been as…unsurprising as the last summons he had received, but it had come on the wake of wild rumours flying around, from an American Marine landing in the north to an American nuclear attack on the Russian capital.  He’d been sent briefing papers as well, once he had arrived, and hadn’t been surprised to learn just how bad the strikes had been.  The Americans had plenty of practice in shock and awe; the Russians were shocked, awed, and furious.

Kirpichov continued to speak.  “We went out on a limb, as the Americans would say, when we offered peace to the Europeans,” he snapped.  “The peace offer was genuine; we would have been more than happy to abandon the war in exchange for those minimal claims.  What happens, might I ask?  The Americans launch a brutal attack and slaughter thousands of our people!”

He glared towards the unfortunate Admiral Daniel Sulkin.  Sulkin was lucky to be alive; the FSB had followed its standard practice of rounding up everyone who might have contributed to the defeat and locking them in one of its many prison camps.  Sulkin was only tolerated in the room because it was also standard practice to make an example of anyone foolish enough to lose a battle.

“The Americans are weak enough to discuss their plans with their allies,” Kirpichov thundered.  He had been a KGB officer, once, who had trained to penetrate America; he believed that that gave him some special insight into Americans.  He might have been right, too, had the circumstances been normal.  America and the world was at war…and nothing would be normal again.  “Did any of them object?  No; the Americans would have called off the attack if their…precious allies objected, but there were no objections and so the brutal attack was mounted and…”

Not very well stuffed, but beautifully mounted, part of Shalenko’s mind whispered.  It was irritating, but it was hardly a complete disaster.  Had it led to the collapse of the Russian Federation?  No; the Russian Federation remained intact and the FSB continued to clamp down hard on any dissent in the ranks.  Fine; they had lost much of their ability to attack the American ships at sea, but it hardly mattered.  Russia could not be strangled though blockade, any more than any other nation in the Pact could be strangled.  Most of their requirements could be met within their own borders or within their allies’ borders.

“…The Americans showed us, in no uncertain terms, that they are determined to bring the war to an end on their terms,” Kirpichov concluded.  Shalenko was more than a little puzzled by the FSB Director’s determination to make his point; hardliner or no, the FSB would not be permitted supreme power in Russia.  The Army and the Industry might have dozens of little factions within their ranks, but all of them would unite to prevent an FSB dictatorship.  “If they are permitted to do that, we will lose all that we have gained!”

His voice became oily as he looked up at Lapotin, who was watching through shadowed eyes.  “In the years since Our President” – the capitals thudded into place – “assumed the Presidency of Russia, much has improved in the lives of the Russian people.  We are the first Russian Government since time immemorial to successfully feed most of its people, without the political handicaps placed on food distribution by the bureaucrats.  We are the first Russian government to produce a final solution” – he used the words without irony – “to the Chechen Problem.  We are the first Russian Government since Stalin himself to give the Army back its pride and its conviction that it is a first-class armed force and a power in the world.  We are Russians…

“And we are faced with a dreadful threat to our own existence,” he proclaimed.  “If the Americans win the war on their terms, they will demand that we…pay for the existence of the smaller states of Eastern Europe.  They will force us to produce raw materials and fuel for them…and they will push forward the adoption of new technologies to cripple our ability to remind the lesser states that our requirements, our security, our power…comes first.  They will insist on massive reparations; they will break the will of the Russian people and crush us below their guns!  We will be ground down into the dirt!”

Shalenko said nothing.  Russia was an odd place when it came to power and responsibility.  In some circumstances, a Captain could literally outrank a General; a FSB officer with no knowledge of the military realities could end up commanding a front.  Kirpichov’s politics, now, were aimed at convincing his fellow cabinet members that resistance to America was vital…and that it rested in his hands.  The single FSB unit to actually engage American forces – or perhaps they had been European Forces; both sides had lost control over the final parts of the battle – had been massacred, but that, too, could be explained away by a determined politician.

“Years ago, when the Germans were at the gates of Moscow, Comrade Stalin did not shrink from using the most dreadful efforts necessary to bring down the Nazis,” Sergey Andreev said.  The ancient man glowered around the room.  “We all pulled together and called on the massive power of Russia and used it to grind the Germans into the dirt.  It was Khrushchev and his successors who forgot, in the end, that war depends on the will to make sacrifices to win.  Khrushchev did not make those sacrifices when it would have mattered…and then it was too late.”

The old man looked at Lapotin.  “We cannot shrink, now, from what is necessary to win the war,” he said.  “What happened yesterday was a terrifying lesson in the dangers of allowing the Americans time to plan.  The original Operation Armageddon called for a victory within a month of hard fighting; it has now been six months and the Americans and Europeans have been growing stronger and stronger while we…have been playing games with politics.”

So he was a hardliner too, Shalenko realised.  He wasn’t sure why that surprised him; Sergey Andreev was so old as to literally have no fear of death, or of what the FSB could do to him.  Power was shifting around the room and no one knew just where it would end up, or who in Russia truly had the most power.  All of a sudden, everyone was peering through a glass darkly…

“There are very real limits on our power,” Gregor Petrovich said, after a very long break in the conversation.  Everyone was running through the conversation in their heads, trying to see what to say that would leave them – or their side – with an advantage.  “In the days of Comrade Stalin” – there was a slight mocking tone to his voice as he spoke – “we could have tanks literally rolling off the assembly lines, being manned by illiterate monkeys from the primitive areas of the country, and then sent into battle.  Our men were hard and tough; they didn’t need really fancy equipment and we deluded ourselves that that would always be the case.

“Now, at best, it takes several weeks to build a tank,” he continued.  “We are fortunate that the Americans have not attempted to launch major strikes against our factories, because we are working overtime to replace losses in the major battles of the European Front.  The victories won for us by General Shalenko” – he nodded in Shalenko’s direction – “were impressive, but they came with a cost; the Poles cost us over fifty tanks…and the Germans cost us over four hundred.  The damage to the two engaged Shock Armies alone cost us dozens of additional tanks…and they take time to rebuild.”

“Then build older tanks,” Sergey Andreev demanded.  “Build simple tanks…”

“Which will be rapidly destroyed by Americans without inflicting any real damage on them at all,” Gregor Petrovich said.  He looked down the table.  “The problem is worst in other areas,” he continued.  “We know the Bear bomber backwards and forwards; that’s why we concentrated on building more of them for maritime strike work, while building additional Backfires and Blackjacks for tactical and strategic strike roles.  The more complex the aircraft, the longer it takes to build it, and the more bottlenecks in the system.  We had a stockpile of Japanese-built components for some of the latest tricks in our arsenal; we have run through almost all of them, to little return.”

“Then we can build them ourselves,” Andreev insisted.  The entire table was silent.  “We spent billions of roubles on those damned factories of yours, instead of building more and more tanks and aircraft…”

“We are,” Gregor Petrovich snapped back.  He took a long harsh breath.  “The factories that we insisted that the Japanese designed and built for us are working overtime.  The rate of components that are…literally useless is increasing because of it.  It is no longer the case of taking a piece of metal, hollowing it out, and declaring it a gun.  It is a case where equipment has to be manufactured according to very precise standards…and anything that doesn’t meet those standards is useless.  Our noble allies” – his voice became a sneer – “have little overflow in their own production systems to spare for us; they, too, have wars to fight.”

He paused.  “General, would you or would you not say that the cost in material has been much higher than anticipated?”

Shalenko paused.  He had hoped to remain out of the discussion.  Supporting anyone could lead to him being branded part of that person’s faction, while lying to the STAVKA would not be well received by the group.  All of them would have their own sources of information; he had to be honest…and hope that they listened to reason.

“Losses in Poland were actually much lower than we expected,” he said, trying to put a positive gloss on events.  “The Poles were in disarray from the first attacks and though they were able to fight hard in some places, they had no hope at all of mounting a coordinated defence, which would have been their only real chance to bleed us.  Much of the deaths came from the battles near Warsaw…and they were not as bloody as had been anticipated, not least thanks to Molobo’s treachery.”

 He saw Kirpichov’s face and winced.  Molobo had been one of the FSB’s greatest success stories; a Polish politician who had committed so many indiscretions that he had been an easy target for a recruitment ploy.  Molobo had needed money, women and drugs…and the FSB had been delighted to serve as his procurer.  His decision to attempt to escape and broadcast a confession, even if it had been partly self-serving and the Polish underground had promptly murdered him, had driven Kirpichov to a fit of rage.

“Losses got much higher when we met organised opposition,” Shalenko continued.  “The delay in securing Poland and our supply lines was unavoidable, but it cost us the chance to inflict a telling blow on the Germans and gave them the time to get a defence line formed.  Although we still won the second battle, we had to force them back and then ward off an attack by Allied forces, intent on recovering Berlin.  In that encounter, in particular, the loss rate was very high.”

“Exactly,” Gregor Petrovich said.  “At some point, not too far away, our ability to actually supply our forces with everything they need is going to crash.  We are already faced with the impossible task of rebuilding the defences in the north, let alone rebuilding the Northern Fleet…”

“Which would be a good chance to modernise the fleet,” Andreev injected.

“We have neither the time, the money, or the resources to build a fleet that would have impressed the Tsar, let alone a modern fleet,” Gregor Petrovich snapped.  “I took a look at the figures and they are bad.  Assuming that everything goes to plan, and it won’t, and the Americans let us get on with it, and they won’t, it will take at least fifteen years to rebuild the docks and the ships.  The Americans might just let us do it and then destroy everything before the ships are ready to be launched!”

He tossed his cards onto the table.  “The war has to end,” he said.  “We need to find a way out of the war.”

“We have tried to offer a peace agreement to the Europeans,” Kirpichov reminded him dryly.  “They rejected it.  It is rather hard to have a peace if only one person of the two sides is willing to have a peace.  It is, in fact, impossible.”

“Then we ask them, publicly, for a peace,” Gregor Petrovich said.  “Director, you do not seem to understand; Russia is not capable of carrying on the war, at most, for longer than four months!”

“If we ask them for a peace, they will see it as weakness and demand greater concessions than we can grant them,” the Minister of Defence said.  Shalenko frowned; the mark of a supremely powerful President was the ability to select his own Minister of Defence…and Lapotin hadn’t been able to select him.  Maxim Baranev might act as Lapotin’s ally, but if events moved against the President, he might well turn on him.  “How will the people tolerate such a peace?”

Lapotin spoke for the first time.  “How are the people taking the war now?”

Kirpichov spoke before anyone else could speak.  “The people are united behind us in the war,” he said.  “Apart from a handful of agitators, defeatists and traitors, the Russian public will do everything they can to ensure that we win the war and make ourselves a great power once again.”

“You really have to stop reading your own propaganda,” Gregor Petrovich said.  The Industrialist looked around the table.  “We are managing to feed people…or are we?  Trains, trucks, airlines…all of them are being committed to moving supplies to the front and men and equipment all the way across the country.  We may have a much better internal transport net than anything the Communists were able to build for us, but that network is all being focused on the military.  Food supplies are at their lowest since the Collapse; not because of the shortage of food, but because of the shortage of transport.”

He paused.  “The mood on the streets is grim,” he continued.  “Despite the FSB’s attempts to confiscate them all, there are still plenty of microburst Internet access machines and satellite dishes; people are hearing news from outside the motherland.  They would have been delighted with a quick victory, but where is that victory now?  They are nervous about what will happen if the war goes on…and the children are crying for food!  If we hadn’t evacuated large sections of the population, it would be worse, and even that is having an effect on morale.  The menfolk just don’t know what happening to their wives and children half the time…and that is taking a toll on everyone.  We need to end the war!”

“And we will,” Kirpichov said.  He addressed Lapotin directly.  “Mr President, I propose that we engage the enemy in the west at once, using – if necessary – tactical nuclear weapons.  If we beat that army, they will have no choice, but to settle on our terms.”

Lapotin looked up at Shalenko.  “General, can we win such a battle?”

Shalenko hesitated again, and then took the plunge.  “No,” he said.  The room seemed to recoil.  “There are the better part of America’s ground forces and almost all of the European armed forces facing us there…and they have enough firepower to defeat us in open combat.  If we use tactical nuclear weapons, we will certainly face tactical nukes launched against us; the Americans, French and British would retaliate in kind.  The net result would be two destroyed armies.”

“General Damitri Socrov believes that it is possible,” Kirpichov said.  In that moment, Shalenko knew that he had lost.  The FSB General was a General, no matter how much of his experience had come from crushing helpless Chechens rather than armed and dangerous soldiers; he would sound good presenting a plan.  “We could punch through and pocket their weaker units, then destroy their heavy units.”

Shalenko shook his head.  “We do not have the resources to accomplish that task,” he said.  Socrov would destroy his army.  He knew nothing of armoured warfare and would launch the tanks on a frontal attack against the main enemy positions, rather than scouting for weak points in the defences.  “We don’t have the firepower to attack their position.”

He realised, as the debate went on, that the STAVKA preferred Socrov’s opinion to his.  “We have no choice, but to settle the matter through force of arms,” Sergey Andreev said, and ended the debate.  “Mr President, I move that we order General Socrov to take command of the Western Front and engage the enemy.  A massive attack, as soon as possible, will change the course of the war.”

Shalenko met Lapotin’s eyes, just for a moment.  “It’s suicide,” he said.  He had to try to prevent disaster, even if it cost him his career, or his life.   “We are talking about throwing away one of our bargaining chips!”

“General, you are relieved of your command,” Lapotin said, his voice steely.  The sense of betrayal – and the cold knowledge that Lapotin had had no choice – flooded though Shalenko’s body.  Given half a chance, Kirpichov would try to have him killed for defeatism.  “If we can defeat the massed Allied army in Europe, much becomes possible.”

In the end, the vote was almost unanimous.

Gregor Petrovich cast the only dissenting vote.

Chapter Thirty-Five: A Girl in Panama

Near Panama City, Panama

“Here’s your money, Yankee slut,” the Venezuelan officer said.  “See you next time.”

Bobbi Howard was, in no particular order, young, attractive, a prostitute, and a spy for the CIA.  Some long time ago, she had been one of thousands of young girls and women in Panama who had gone into prostitution as a means of keeping themselves alive, in the wake of the economic problems in Panama.  American servicemen loved Panama for its facilities and its woman; Bobbi had been lucky enough to be actually saving money for night classes in an attempt to better herself when she had met a CIA operative.  That night had been the most special of her life; the Agency would not only pay for her education, but would help her to get into the United States…if she used her not inconsiderable talents in their service.  The CIA was very interested in what the Panamanian leaders were thinking; taking advantage of their lust for blonde girls was one simple way of learning what they were doing.

Bobbi herself was careful to look and act the part of the dumb blonde.  Her father had been an American, somewhere back in 1999; her mother a prostitute who had given the child up for adoption in one of the state-run orphanages, where they had been surprised to discover that she was almost pure Anglo.  She was hardly Latino, or Indian, or African, or any of the other races that had contributed to Panama’s melting pot, but apparently purely American.  With a little effort, she could look almost exactly like Madonna…something that drove clients wild.  She had wondered if, every time she opened her legs for a Venezuelan officer, they believed, deep inside, that they were fucking America.  Most of them didn’t know how to treat a girl right; all ‘wam, bang, thank you madam’, often without the thank you.

She smiled to herself as the door closed.  Her flat, a nicely anonymous flat in a quiet region of the city, was wired for sound, using an American device that defeated most counter-surveillance devices.  Most Venezuelan officers who came to visit her didn’t bother with any anti-surveillance devices that they might have had; they wanted their people to know that they were sleeping with an American girl.  For some reason, they thought highly of their success, even if it had come through the simple expedient of passing over a large chunk of money.  And some of the things they said…

It was the work of a moment to sit up and begin the task of cleaning herself.  The Venezuelans had, at first, behaved themselves in Panama.  They had occupied all of the strategic points and in many places had been the only force of law and order; the police had either been set upon by the rioters or had vanished into the city.  The different factions that had been born in Panama had been under the impression that a few days of bloodshed was all that was required to create a new society, but they had been wrong; purges of the government had led to more purges…the Venezuelans had quietly encouraged the bloodshed as thousands met their deaths at the hands of the rebels and the dispossessed.  The high society women had been raped and then killed; their menfolk had been torn apart by crowds of workers.  People who had any ties at all with the Americans had been hunted ruthlessly; the entire country seemed to be on the verge of drowning in the blood it had shed.

And then the Venezuelans had simply taken over.  They had moved in thousands of soldiers and they had ambitions.  The heads of the different underground factions had simply disappeared, while the foot soldiers and insurgents had been ruthlessly massacred if they dared to try to oppose Venezuelan forces.  Many in the city had even welcomed the Venezuelan intervention; they had been trying to stabilise a city that had been turning on its own.  Panama’s existence as an independent state had come to an end before a week had passed; once again, Panama was under the control of a foreign power.  The only difference was that the Venezuelans were less well-behaved than the Americans.

Bobbi had other contacts, right across the city; some of them might even have been working for the CIA themselves.  The dockyard workers had been forced back to work, paid in Venezuelan bolívares.  American and other foreign currencies had been banned and food was under strict rationing; Bobbi’s handler, in Langley, had speculated that it was yet another means of controlling the population, along with less pleasant methods like armed force and threats.  Some people in the city still had faith in the Venezuelans, but there had been no real improvement under their rule, only more laws and less governance.

She dried her hair, wondering if it was worth staying around to watch whatever happened.  The Americans had asked her to monitor Venezuelan movements – as if she had access to a network of CCTV cameras over the entire city.  All she had really been able to tell them on her occasional walks around the city, using the movement permit that her clients had given her, was that there seemed to be no shortage of Venezuelan soldiers within the city.  They had also asked her to be on the lookout for Chinese, Russian or Indian soldiers, but there seemed to be no uniformed soldiers of those nations.  It proved nothing, as she had sardonically pointed out; there were plenty of Chinese citizens in Panama, and some of them were almost certainly Chinese agents.  If nothing else, the experience of Venezuelan occupation had given Panama a new sense of its own vulnerability.

Bobbi glanced down, once, at the box of chocolates she had been sharing with her last client and decided, ruefully, that perhaps it was time to leave the rest of the box for later.  Pulling on a simple dressing gown, she wandered over to the window and peered out over the city, noting the plumes of smoke rising from somewhere within the poorer districts of the city.  Some unlucky bastard had run afoul of the Venezuelans, she decided; they had been punished for some imaginary crime.  Her lips twitched; perhaps the crime had been believing that the Venezuelans were telling the truth when they promised a new age of Latin American independence from the hated Americans.

It was then that she heard the jets.

***
The Chinese Embassy in Panama had been one of China’s largest, ever since the Government of Panama had made a show of requesting Chinese help for some insignificant project that only existed as a chance to funnel money into a dozen private Swiss bank accounts.  General Shen had been amused to discover that rioters had looted the embassy as well as the other embassies in Panama; clearly, there had been less love for the Chinese than the Venezuelans had claimed.  Or, of course, as the official story had it…American agitators had directed the mobs onto the Chinese guards to distract the mobs from hitting the American Embassy.  Shen knew plenty about black propaganda; there was more then one way of handicapping a powerful opponent who was a slave to the democratic process.

Not that Shen really understood democracy, of course; it struck him as an inefficient way of running a foreign policy.  America should have either played fair with Panama or invaded, occupied and subjected the nation; it puzzled him that the Americans had done neither, instead ignoring the dictum about never doing a recoverable injury to a foe.  The Venezuelans had provided most of the weapons – well, actually the Pact had, though Venezuela – but it had been the citizens of Panama who had provided the force that had finally destroyed a hated and corrupt regime.  Now…

“The Americans have stepped into our trap,” General Hector Montenegro said.  He had been promoted to General by the grateful Caudillo Cesar Eduardo Fernandez, who had credited Montenegro with the success of his plan.  “They have overrun one of our countries and they will soon feel the sting of our people, attacking them to drive them out of Cuba.”

“Maybe,” Shen said.  Montenegro had set up his headquarters in the Presidential Palace, adopting at once a luxurious life that was in stern contrast to Shen’s own aesthetic leanings.  Montenegro might have taken Panama – using Shen’s plan – but he hadn’t held it against the American counterattack that Shen was mortally certain was coming.  “On the other hand, what about the problems you have been having in sending more spies and agents to Cuba?”

Montenegro glared at him.  “The imperialists have sealed the island from all contact and they have sunk three of our best submarines, despite your promises,” he snapped.  His face only grew darker; all of those promises had been made before the war began and Venezuela was committed to fighting anyway.  “Where are the missiles and equipment you have promised us?”

“You fired most of them off in the attack on Panama,” Shen reminded him dryly.  “Other weapons, including specialised antiship shells, were spent in the attack on the Marines; would you have rathered a force of Marines running amok in your rear? Your task is to merely hold onto the Panama Canal and prevent the imperialists from using it to crush you, nothing else.”

“This is more than just a tactical strike,” Montenegro insisted.  His voice throbbed with conviction.  “This is the birth of a movement that will unite Latin America under the rule of the Caudillo and secure our freedom from the Americans forever.  We cannot waste time digging into the Panama Canal Zone if we have to ensure that all traces of the old regime are purged…”

Shen took a breath, and then let it out slowly.  The Pact had much less influence on the Caudillo, and Venezuela, than he would have preferred.  The Americans had flexed their muscles and destroyed Cuba…and he had the feeling that Panama would be next.  The Caudillo – whose judgement was considered to be infallible by most of his people – believed that Venezuela would be the next target, but Shen suspected otherwise.  Why would the Americans waste time and resources on crushing Venezuela when Panama threatened their very lifeblood?

It was the age-old problem with allies…and the fact that America probably felt the same way was no relief.  Allies had plans and priorities of their own.  The Caudillo believed that the weight of international law would support him – like all megalomaniacs, he found it hard to see that anyone would disagree with him – and ensure that Venezuela could keep the Canal, either openly or through a puppet government.  His belief had two flaws; first, international law was not on his side…and second, that America wouldn’t feel constrained after the deaths caused by Venezuela in America itself.

His gaze alit on two APV units, sitting watching the world go by.  The Venezuelans had refused his advice to destroy the Canal, and were in fact working hard to clear the wreckage of several ships from the Canal.  The Caudillo, Shen knew, intended to offer the world access to the Canal at cut rates, assuming that they supported Venezuela’s new claim…and that needed an open canal.  There were too many other problems – the anti-Venezuela resistance in Columbia, for one – and yet, the Caudillo was wasting time.  Shen knew that there wasn’t time to waste.  It wouldn’t be long before America mounted an attack and…

His gaze flickered up as air raid sirens started to howl.  The damage to the US satellite network had been extensive, but at least one of their air strike support satellites was making a pass over Panama…and it seemed as if the Americans intended to make the Venezuelans pay for their attack on American soil.  Rumour had it that the American satellites could even designate targets for the bombers from orbit, using lasers, but no one had managed to prove or disprove that particular claim.  Shen knew that the Americans always kept a few tricks up their sleeves…and one of them might be about to come into play.

Montenegro’s face was stunned.  “What are they doing?”

Shen watched as missile batteries slowly revolved around, lifting their missiles and pointing them into the sky, preparing for launch.  “The Americans are coming to get you,” he said.  The sense of overwhelming calm surprised even him.  “I think that we should get into the shelter.”

Montenegro hesitated.  “My equipment is in the Palace,” he protested.  He turned, as if he was going to walk right into the target, no matter the danger.  No American pilot worth his wings could fail to hit it.  “I have to get to it.”

Along with his whores, his riches, his goods, his private food supply, Shen thought coldly.  He could hear a distance explosion in the sky, see a missile trail as it raced through the sky towards a target.  Montenegro’s face paled as the missile found a target, something so high up that it only flickered in the sky as it exploded.

“Get down,” Shen snapped.  Cursing himself, he grabbed Montenegro and threw him to the ground as a missile raced over his head, racing directly towards the missile launcher.  A second appeared, targeting the big radar that the Venezuelans had set up in the Palace grounds; two explosions shook the ground all around them.  He felt the Venezuelan wiggle under his body as he saw an aircraft, flying far too low for safely, fly overhead and drop a series of small bombs on the Palace.  “Stay down!”

The Palace exploded.  It seemed to happen almost in slow motion; first the bomb struck the building, then the windows blew out in a hail of fire…and then the remainder of the building simply disintegrated under the weight of the blast.  Shen felt a wave of heat blast over his prone body and he expected to be covered in chunks of masonry falling from the sky.  Seconds later, or so it felt, he was deafened by the noise of the blast.  He gasped in pain…

The American jet had vanished in the distance, ignoring the hail of anti-aircraft fire from the ground; it was almost invulnerable to weapons without radar guidance, unless the gunners were very good and very lucky.  Other American aircraft flashed across the sky, some heavier aircraft clearly launching JDAM weapons down towards the Venezuelan positions…and there was no sign at all of the Venezuelan Air Force.  The Russians had trained them well, but they wouldn’t be a match for Americans; the Americans would have totally kicked their collective arse.

He stood up.  The attack seemed to come to a sudden halt; one moment countless aircraft had been in the air, the next everything was quiet again.  No, not quite; he could hear the sound of fires, smell the smoke drifting all over the city, and survey the ruins of the Palace.  Montenegro stood up, his nose bleeding; Shen realised in a moment that his ears were barely working.  He rubbed them until he could hear properly again, wishing that he had thought of some ear protectors.  They might have saved some of his hearing.

Montenegro was trying to talk.  “What the hell was that?”

“American bombs, targeting your air defences, your troop positions, and your command and control facilities,” Shen said.  He realised that he was bleeding from a series of cuts and bruises and examined the wounds quickly.  They would hardly be fatal, but if they got infected, it could be unpleasant.  “I think you had better see what kind of command and control you have left.”

Montenegro stared at him, as if he had suddenly stripped off his clothes and done a nude dance.  “Why?”

“The shock must have affected your brain, Hector,” Shen said.  He was sick of Venezuela and its people and it was showing in his voice.  “That attack is only the beginning.  The Americans are coming to take Panama…and you’d better get ready to deal with them.”

***
Bobbi found herself on the ground with the inescapable conviction that her sanity was impaired.  The shockwaves that had spread through the entire city had knocked her to the ground; she wasn’t even sure what had happened, except she had landed on her butt before she had realised what was happening.  She was very glad that there was no one there to see her; she looked a disgraceful sight on the ground.  She pulled herself up, rubbing at her rear, to see new explosions spreading all over the city, with broken windows everywhere, but the handful of buildings that had heavy glass.

“Fuck me,” she breathed, taking advantage of her solitude to swear.  It didn’t go with the ‘legally blonde’ image she tried to create for herself.  She had to appear fresh, young and innocent for some of the really strange clients, even though she hadn’t been innocent since she was fourteen.  It didn’t bother her; she had long ago become used to the harder parts of the job.  “You really went down on the town, didn’t you?”

There was smoke rising from the Presidential Palace, several plumes of smoke that seemed to be laughing as they rose into the sky.  Some people on the street below were cheering; she heard shooting in the distance as the Venezuelans attempted to restore order.  It wouldn’t be easy; the damage to their image was something that they wouldn’t find easy to repair.

Smiling to herself for the first time in ages, Bobbi headed over to her laptop to file a report.  Langley would want to know what was happening…and, who knew?  They might pull her out of Panama before her time was up.  The Americans were on their way and the joke was simple; there were plenty of people in Panama, now, who would welcome the Americans back into the tiny nation.

It was only a matter of time.

Chapter Thirty-Six: A Delta Force Team in Panama

Panama Coastline, Panama

“Aggressor Lead, we have five enemy fighters heading towards Panama,” the controller said.  Captain John Hendrick glanced down at his display; the enemy MIGs were racing towards Panama from Venezuela, trying to challenge the vast weight of aerial firepower that had been brought to bear on Panama.  “Engage and take them out.”

“Understood, Control,” Hendrick said.  “Aggressor Flight, with me.”

He had thought that Cuba had been an awesome display of American airpower.  The vast bases in America had been practically next door to the targets and the bombardment had been vast, precise, and utterly lethal to the Cuban Government.  It helped that the Cuban Government was disliked by the majority of its citizens, who tried time and time again to leave Cuba for America.  One of the surest signs that there was something wrong with communism was that so many people tried to leave it…and weren’t allowed to leave.  If someone wanted to leave America and go live in Cuba…well, Hendrick didn’t think that anyone would try to stop them.

The wave of aircraft closing in on Panama and Venezuela was far more awesome.  The USAF disposed of almost ten thousand aircraft, some of them newer aircraft that had never been sent into war, others older craft that had been reactivated from storage, and it looked as if all of them were going into the attack.  Many of them carried precision bombs for use in Panama; others carried dumb bombs, targeted on larger military bases in Venezuela.  There would be civilian deaths, of course, but everyone knew that that couldn’t be helped; the United States had had enough of the President of Venezuela and his regime.  Hendrick saw the pilots, up ahead of his craft, and wondered if they even knew how hopeless it was.  They would have been much smarter to head to Brazil and run for their lives.  They didn’t stand a chance.

“Brave idiots,” he muttered.  The Venezuelans had had one AWACS orbiting over Panama, but it had been blown out of the sky in the first attack…and the two that had been on the ground had never managed to get into the air.  He was impressed that the Venezuelans had even been able to gain an approximate location on his flight; the Raptors had been running silent, using the signals from JSTARS and their own command craft to track their targets.  “Aggressor Two, Aggressor Three, follow me in and engage on my command.”

The Venezuelan aircraft were pushing their own engines to the limit, pushing the boundaries of Mach Two.  The MIG-29 was a good aircraft, easily comparable to a Hornet or a Falcon, but it wasn't in the same league as the Raptor; Hendrick could have killed the five aircraft himself, but he knew better than to shoot himself dry.  The Raptor was even capable of acting as a mini-AWACS; the Venezuelans would be lucky if they managed to get a weapons lock before he killed them.

“Engaging the target,” he said.  “Fox Two; missile away!”

Two missiles launched from the Raptor, engaging separate Venezuelan aircraft, which banked and dived as their threat receivers reported the threat.  The other aircraft fired behind him, targeting the remaining three aircraft; two Venezuelan pilots weren’t quick enough to evade the missiles and died in rolling balls of fire.  A third, heedless of the danger, tried to bring up his own sensors and get a lock on a Raptor; a missile homed in on him and killed him before he could fire.

“Incoming missiles,” Aggressor Four warned.  One of the MIGs had either gotten a lock or had fired in sheer blind desperation.  They weren’t the latest missiles in the Pact’s arsenal, Hendrick noted; the Pact had clearly not considered Venezuela worth the effort of supplying their latest, which would have made the battle a little harder.  A Pact SAM was a fearsome weapon in the right hands, but the Venezuelans were good, but clearly not up to Chinese or Russian standards.  “Evasive action.”

“Close in and destroy the remaining targets,” Hendrick snapped, as he rolled into a spin and avoided a missile by a kilometre.  “Aggressor Five, watch your six; kill that bastard.”

Aggressor Six spun around and snapped off a missile at the lone Venezuelan survivor.  “Target destroyed, Boss,” he reported, a moment later.  Hendrick allowed himself a moment of relief; it could have been a lot worse.  “One direct impact; no ejection seen.”

“Pity,” Hendrick muttered.  He would have liked to have met the brave pilots before they had killed them.  They had certainly had talent; in another life, he might have flown beside them.  “Control, do you have any other targets for us?”

“That’s a negative, Aggressor Team,” the controller said.  Hendrick nodded as a flight vector appeared on his display; they had been assigned a slot to refuel from a tanker before they returned to base.  The USAF had practiced such manoeuvres regularly; they would be able to extend their range for days, if they had to fly for longer.  “Resume your patrol position and wait for further orders.  You may get to fly again if the bombers missed those Backfires that Venezuela has in that secured airbase that just got hammered.”

“Overrated, the lot of them,” Hendrick muttered.  Backfires had been shot down before, during the Iran Intervention; they might have been dangerous, but he wasn’t impressed.  B1 aircraft were much nastier.  “We hear and obey.”

He looked down, again, at the constant update from the controlling aircraft, trying to marshal some kind of order out of what looked like complete chaos.  The aircraft were moving constantly, closing in on the defences around Panama and systematically destroying most of them, even while taking fire from some of the ground defences.  Every time a SAM was launched, a Hornet nipped in and destroyed the launcher, weakening the defences stage by stage.  It wouldn’t be long before the defences were gone completely…and then the real fun would begin.

***
“That’s your insertion point,” the pilot breathed.  His voice was very quiet, even though the Blackhawk helicopter was making enough noise to drown out any conversation.  “Are your men ready to proceed?”

Sergeant Santos Fortunato nodded and glanced back at the soldiers sitting in the rear of the aircraft.  There were only twelve of them in total, but each of them was among the toughest soldiers in the American Army.  Delta Force had only a handful of soldiers, compared to other units, but each one of them was a dedicated and professional soldier.

“Yep,” he said.  The joshing and conversation had died down as the helicopter had entered the combat airspace, somewhere where they could be shot down at any time by Venezuelan fire…or, accidentally, by a friendly aircraft.  The two helicopters were going in almost silently; if someone saw them, they might well be mistaken for the enemy and fired upon.  “We’re ready…”

“Two minutes,” the pilot said.  “Closing in…now!”

The aircraft lanced towards the ground, ducking and weaving, a tactic intended to confuse any SAM missiles that might be fired at it as it tried to land.  Fortunato muttered orders to his men, who hefted their weapons and prepared to disembark as the helicopter fell towards the ground…and the hatch opened with a terrifying crash.  The lead soldiers didn’t wait for orders; they were leaping out, ducking to avoid the helicopter blades, before the helicopter even touched the ground.  As the other soldiers followed them out, they secured the landing zone and quickly checked to ensure that there were no unfriendly people near the zone.

“Everyone out,” the pilot muttered.  Fortunato waved once and jumped out himself, stepping back into the heat of a Panamanian summer.  He had fond memories of a week spent in Panama as a young man with a young man’s appetites; it was good to be back, even if they were fighting to liberate Panama rather than just training in the endless jungle.  “Be seeing you!”

The rear soldiers had quickly rolled out their pallets of supplies; they now joined the remainder of the men on the ground, allowing the helicopters to take off again, heading back towards the Special Operations carrier, lurking off the Pacific Coast.  Fortunato shrugged as the helicopters headed away from the landing zone; the twenty-four men who made up the four teams had always known that it would be dangerous.  If they were lucky, they might be able to call on air support, but Fortunato had been warned that that was not a given.  Their task required stealth and considerable secrecy; if the Venezuelans knew that they were coming, it would become a lot harder.

He thought about it as the teams distributed the gear among themselves and checked their GPS position monitors.  They had been landed only five kilometres from their target; a command and control point near the Miraflores Locks, which had to be secured.  There was at least one LNG tanker in the lake a few kilometres from the locks, and intelligence had been worried that unless the locks and their control points were seized, the Venezuelans might take advantage of the chaos to blow up the locks and call it a draw.  It hurt, somehow, that people who might well be related to his family would seek to do something like that; Fortunato was determined to prevent it.

“It’s time to move,” he said.  There was no grumbling, or bickering; all of the men knew just how important – and dangerous – their mission was.  The Venezuelans had moved a large force into the region and cleared out all of the civilians; they had clearly something in mind past gloating over the Marines they had killed, weeks ago.  Fortunato didn’t expect help from the natives, but it would be nice to have it; the team included seven Spanish-speakers and three people who shared a Latin American origin.  It might mean the difference between life and death.

Panama hadn’t changed much, he realised, since he had been there last.  The jungle remained as alive and as deadly as ever; the team moved though it with the kind of focus that was only granted to intense commandos and fanatics.  Fortunato had once read a paper that claimed that soldiers and terrorist fanatics were two sides of the same coin, and while he rejected the suggestion as not worthy of a response, he had to admit that there were some points, determination, for example, where they were almost equal.  He had served in Afghanistan, watching the last of the Taliban try to blow themselves and their American enemies up, or where one wounded Taliban fighter had crawled all the way to a grenade to throw it at the American forces closing in on them.  It was galling, in some ways, to know that their enemies were brave, but they lacked discipline; he had once sniped a terrorist compound and watched as twenty terrorists had tried to charge his position, rather than trying to get out of the line of fire.

“What this place needs is some monsters in the jungle to liven it up a bit,” he muttered, as they slipped closer to the target.  He used hand signals to order most of the team to remain behind while he and a fellow Sergeant slipped forward to do some reconnaissance.  The locks below seemed to be idle; a ship was waiting for them to open, and by the appearance of the ship, it had been waiting for weeks.  The locks below seemed to be crawling with Venezuelan soldiers, who had set up a defence perimeter around the locks and were patrolling aggressively.  A small SAM launcher and a set of small AFVs were waiting nearby; he couldn’t understand why the launcher hadn’t been spotted and destroyed by the hunting aircraft.  There were mines in the water, too, unless he missed his guess; he could just see hints that there were mines present.

“Must have gotten it turned off,” the other Sergeant subvocalised.  The small communicators in his uniform picked up the message and relayed it to Fortunato.  “They’ve turned the entire place into a barracks.”

They shared a grin.  “Attack?”

“That’s what we’re here for,” Fortunato reminded him dryly.  He spent nearly an hour studying the enemy deployment, at one point deploying the Flywall Camera Drone into the air, a tiny drone that was barely larger than a large wasp.  It couldn’t be deployed for very long, but it was giving him an idea of just how many enemy soldiers there were in the region.  There were at least two hundred…and perhaps more in the barracks…and they might have the docks wired for demolition.  “That guys the commander; I’ll stake my command on it.”

He directed the drone to examine one particular Venezuelan soldier.  He wore a uniform that was noticeably more flashy than anything in the American army, with a sense of style that would only normally be found in a madhouse, or a clothing house for mad dictators.  The Venezuelan swaggered around with a cane, from time to time issuing unnecessary instructions to his men.  He had to be the commander, or at least someone high in the ranks.

“Time to move,” he said grimly, as they slipped back to where the remainder of the group was waiting.  The commandos hadn’t wasted their time; they had prepped their weapons and prepared to move out on the slightest notice.  There was no reason to believe that the Venezuelans had sensors to track commandos, but Fortunato ordered sensor-dampening hoods to be worn anyway; assuming that the Pact couldn’t do something had hurt America before, and he couldn’t afford to lose more men than he had to lose.  “Fire team; take up a position and prepare to take out the building and their vehicles.  Everyone else…”

He issued orders quickly, leaving his men as much leeway as possible, and the force slipped closer to the enemy positions.  The Venezuelans had done them one favour; they had cleared out any civilians, just to ensure that they weren’t distracted, but it meant his men could go weapons free.  It was much safer for all concerned if they didn’t have to worry about harming civilians.  He checked, quickly, that everyone was in position and snapped a quick command.

“Fire!”

The fire team opened fire at once.  They had a portable artillery weapon, designed for commando work; they put four high explosive shells into the Venezuelan positions before the Venezuelans even knew they were there.  The explosions caught the Venezuelans completely by surprise…and by the time they had recovered, the teams were moving forward, racing for the locks and their control points.  Everything else could wait.

“Got the fat bastard,” the sniper hissed in Fortunato’s ear.  “Sniped his head clean off with a single shot.”

“Good work,” Fortunato snapped.  They had to keep rushing forward; they didn’t dare give the enemy time to regroup and counterattack.  He tossed a grenade into a window as he passed, just in case; other buildings were catching fire as the team passed though them, shots echoing across the complex as they picked off enemy soldiers.  The Venezuelans had much less fire discipline; one of them unloaded an AK-89 at him and missed by only a few meters.  “Tank!”

A Venezuelan driver was moving forward in an APC, machine guns turning to face Fortunato’s position.  A commando ran forward with an antitank gun and blew the vehicle into a piece of flaming wreckage, destroying it before it could fire.  The other vehicles were already burning; the fire team had hit them several times and destroyed them.  A soldier on foot was running towards the locks; Fortunato shot him in the back before he could trigger any mines or high explosives.

Suddenly, it was over.  A voice was shouting in Spanish, offering surrender.  Fortunato shouted back, ordering the speaker to throw down his weapon and lie on the ground and wait, an order taken up by other Spanish-speaking soldiers on the force.  Four of his men charged into the lock control room and found a detonation system, fortunately not manned by the enemy, carelessness that would have had the person responsible tossed out of the Army in America.

“Round up the prisoners,” Fortunato ordered, as his demolition experts began to remove the explosives from the locks.  “Secure them and hold them; we’ll sort out who they are later.

“Yes, sir,” a commando said.  He clapped Fortunato on the shoulder, something that would not normally happen in a military unit, but the teams were special.  “We did good today, sir; we met the enemy and all their bases belong to us.”

“Five down,” Sergeant Todt said, after they had performed a quick search of the remaining buildings and checked the status of the team.  They had lost only five commandos, although two more had been badly injured and would need to be transported out by a helicopter once the follow-up teams had been sent along to reinforce the Delta Force.  “It could have been worse.”

Fortunato shook his head slowly.  He had known each of those men; the teams were a close-knit world and they had all been his friends, even if they had also been his subordinates.  They had killed over a hundred enemy soldiers and captured seventy more, but it wasn't enough to make up for what they'd lost.  He looked up as a flight of jet fighters raced overhead, heading back towards their carrier or perhaps back to their land bases.  The pilots, high above, didn’t know what war was really like.

“Yes,” he said slowly.  The prisoners were clearly nervous, shivering there with their hands firmly secured; some of them were terrified of their American captors.  Fortunato wondered just what they were thinking; the Venezuelan propaganda had been so virulently anti-American that it was quite possible that the men expected him to pull out a knife and fork and start eating them.  “I suppose that it could have been worse.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Smoke and Mirrors

Washington DC, USA

“We picked up a piece of vital intelligence by reading the Russian newspapers and broadsheet transmissions,” David Simmons said.  NSA communications interception systems had also picked up the message, but the CIA had nearly missed the significance.  “Admiral Daniel Sulkin was put in front of a wall yesterday evening and shot by a FSB firing squad.”

The President studied the report for a second, his eyes flickering up and down the page.  “Analysis?”

Simmons frowned.  The subject was complicated and not one that made much sense to westerners.  “I believe that it’s a worrying sign, Mr President,” he said.  He stood up and started to pace.  “The last time a senior Russian officer was shot – publicly – was back in 2015, during the scandal at the Russian barracks.  The circumstances were such that the Russians had no choice, but to shoot the officer in command, but they could have done it…under the table, as it were.

“The Russians have a long history of shooting commanding officers who lose, along with their command staffs and their families,” he continued.  It was difficult to explain without putting it in perspective.  “The process, contrary to many reports, didn’t start with Stalin, but the Tsars and their people tended to keep the process quiet, and so it didn’t come to public – outside – attention until the Great Purge in the thirties, and then the deaths of several hundred Russians during the Second World War.  The practice became rarer after Stalin shuffled off this mortal coil, but it remained in operation; the KGB saw to the deaths of several Russians, mainly for incompetence or political unreliability, which could be nothing more than failing to grovel enough to the local KGB officer.”

He waved his hand to indicate the passage of time.  “The Soviet Union collapsed and the practice faded into disuse for twenty-odd years,” he said.  “Yeltsin might have wanted to shoot a few Russian officers after the balls-up in Chechnya, but he lacked either the stomach or the political power to order it done.  Putin ordered it done at least twice…and we know that several officers were shot publicly in 2015.

“You see, Mr President, they can either shoot someone publicly, or do it silently, without fanfare.  In the case of the latter, the victim gets shot, his body gets dumped in an unmarked grave, and they are generally forgotten about.  The police state in Russia discourages questions about people who run afoul of the state like that.  A public shooting, however, is more than just a moment of vengeful rage, but a public statement.  It’s as if you fired a General, but rather more fatal.”

The President lifted an eyebrow.  “A public statement?”

“Precisely,” Simmons said.  “The idea is not just to get rid of a problem, but to make sure that everyone knows what happened and that there are therefore deterred from committing the same offence.  In the case of the barrack shootings, the officers shot were responsible for running what was in effect a paedophile ring using young Russian conscripts as unwilling sex slaves.  The cases didn’t become public and then the government reacted; the government reacted and made the cases public, following with the news that everyone involved had been shot, to encourage the others.

“In this case, Admiral Sulkin’s crime was losing to us,” he continued.  “The missile strikes on the Northern Fleet wrecked huge damage on the fleet, a clear defeat for Russia and the Pact.  They have clearly decided to strike back by punishing the officer who lost the battle, even though there was little he could have done to prevent the crisis.  That is the only shooting of a senior officer that we know about in the current war – the only other death sentences that we know about were conferred on a handful of junior officers who were guilty of mistreatment of Polish citizens…and all of them were ordered during the early days of the war.  It should be noted that since the uprising in Poland, there have been no charges, trials or executions for that particular crime; in any case, soldiers who go beyond the pale are more often shoved into penal units and sent on suicide missions.”

“I see,” the President said finally.  “What does it all mean?”

“There’s a worse sign as well,” Simmons said.  “This wasn’t exactly done publicly, but we have some suspicion that we were intended to find out about it, which means that it could well be disinformation.  General Aleksandr Shalenko, who was in command of the Russian western front forces and was almost certainly the person who planned the main offensive, was relieved of his command at the same time.  We don’t know what happened to him, but given how popular he was, it’s unlikely that they simply shot him as well as Sulkin.  He has simply been reassigned.”

He tapped the map.  “Russian politics are odd,” he said.  “In our case, the President is also Commander-in-Chief of the United States Military; effectively the senior officer in the military as long as he holds office.  In their case, particularly since Stalin, a President was never the Minister of Defence at the same time; the mark of a President’s power was his ability to choose his own Minister of Defence without opposition.  Lapotin was once Minister of Defence himself, but he was never able to choose his successor when he became President; that task was left up to the Cabinet.  Shalenko – who we know to be a close friend and confident of the Russian President – would have made an excellent and loyal Minister of Defence, but instead Maxim Baranev was given the post.  Baranev is a classic REMF, Mr President; few people would have accepted him in America.  He lacks combat experience or even real command experience; in short, he’s a political general of the worst kind.

“What I believe it means is bad news,” he concluded.  “I think that there’s been a power struggle in Russia and the hardliners have won.”

“That seems a little…premature,” the President said.  “How do you know that?”

“Some odd points,” Simmons said.  “First, the replacement commander for the western front is not Shalenko’s second-in-command, who knows the ground and knows what’s happening, but General Damitri Socrov.  Socrov is not a REMF, but a FSB officer, someone who was charged with bringing peace to Chechnya.  You may have read some of the reports from there, or seen some of the videos that got out onto the Internet; although Moscow denied such reports and claimed that they were actors, there is some good reason to believe that the reports are real.  Socrov has since been ordered to Poland, where he was placed in command of counter-insurgency units and has been terrorising the Poles ever since.

“Second, the fact that Lapotin was apparently unable to protect his friend,” Simmons said.  “The President of Russia enjoys considerable freedom of action in many cases; Lapotin was unable to prevent Shalenko from being reassigned, and clearly didn’t move a muscle to save Sulkin from the firing squad.  Lapotin himself, insofar as we can apply such terms, might be considered a centrist; he was certainly responsible for pulling together the Russian National Party out of the wreck of several others.  The hardliners seem to have taken control…and that is very worrying.  The hardliners might have been behind the demands we faced a month ago; they might also have been behind the treatment of the Poles.”

He paused.  “In short, we may expect a renewed Russian offensive in the west,” he concluded.  “The Russians have been moving thousands of additional soldiers westwards; we expect that they will be placed into the battle line and used to attack the European lines.  If they succeed, they may well knock the French and Germans out of the war, and that would destroy our ability to fight the Pact in Europe.  That might just be what they’re counting on.”

The President looked up at General Armstrong.  “For what it’s worth, we concur,” General Armstrong said.  “Military Intelligence has wondered about the prospects of a new Russian offensive for some time, despite the fact that the Russians have always honoured the truce terms.  They’re definitely moving up newer units and preparing them for trouble, but there was always the question of what they intended to do with the units.  One school of thought had it that they were digging in, another was that they were sending some of their older units on leave.”

The General sighed.  “We have been moving additional units ourselves to Europe,” he said.  “The problem is that we may need more of the newer units for Panama, and that limits what we can move to Europe.  It’s good news in a way, because if we break the Russian offensive, we might put some people in power who actually are inclined to talk about a serious peace.  Of course, if we fail to break it…”

The President nodded.  “Then we lose in Europe,” he said.  “That would be worrying.”  He studied the map for a long moment.  “What’s the current situation in Panama?”

General Armstrong grinned.  “It’s developing very well,” he assured him.  “Most of the enemy aircraft were destroyed in the first air attacks, followed by a series of raids intended to wear down the enemy and keep them firmly concentrated on watching our big and heavy aircraft, rather than watching the rear.  Various Special Forces teams were inserted into Panama and cleared most of the enemy forces away from the canal; ironically, many of the locals were actually glad to see us.  At the moment, the canal has been cleared, and apart from Panama City, there are no major enemy forces left active in Panama.  We have not, as yet, actually attempted to secure the whole country, but we may well have to secure Panama City itself.”

The President looked up at him.  “And if we don’t?”

General Armstrong blinked.  “Mr President?”

“If we don’t worry about securing the entire country, but just the Panama Canal, what would that do for our position?”

“Politically speaking, it would be unwise,” Simmons said, before General Armstrong could answer.  “We have made a commitment to Panama, even if they threw it back in our face after your…predecessor made that agreement with them.  Whatever he was thinking, we do have to honour our commitments…”

“Panama, without the Canal, is a minor problem,” the President said.  He looked up at the General.  “General?”

“The enemy forces are mainly Venezuelans,” General Armstrong said.  “It’s becoming apparent from prisoner interrogations that they have been taking over more and more overtly; Panamanian fighters have been disarmed and in some cases simply shot down like dogs.  The Venezuelans don’t have the discipline or the local knowledge to operate effectively as an underground threat, although at the moment, they might be all that’s preventing Panama City from a major social collapse.  They’re cut off from supplies from back home, so it’s possible that their commander will offer a surrender soon enough, but they are also dug into the city.”

He paused.  “If we go into the city, over a million citizens could die in the fighting.

“If we remain outside the cities and concentrate mainly on securing the Canal, we can keep our forces out of the chaos,” he concluded.  “The only real threat would come from commando-style raids and…well; frankly, I wouldn’t give a cent for their chances of doing more than annoying us.  Now that we have control over the air, we can move forces rapidly along the Canal and keep it safe from all harm.  Personally, given that we will have to mount a major campaign in Indonesia soon, I am in favour of leaving the Venezuelan forces in Panama to writher on the vine.”

“I see,” the President said.  “Just how much harm did we do the Russians anyway?”

Simmons was used to sudden changes in the direction of the conversation.  “It’s always hard to be certain with the Russians,” he said.  “They had the entire area sealed off in ways that made the gated community at Detroit look open to the public.  We know that almost all of the missiles actually hit their targets, a ninety-nine success rate, and that many of their targets were completely destroyed.  Some of the damage, to their airfields, for example, could be repaired simply by filling in the holes; other pieces of damage would be much harder to repair.  We hit several of their radars, although we were careful to leave the BMD radars alone; that would utterly panic the Russians.

“We also know that we cost them around a hundred aircraft,” he said.  “Seventy-three aircraft, mainly fighters, were shot down by our carrier-borne aircraft.  We also know that several bombers failed to reach a tanker in time and crashed into the ground, others had to flee to commercial airports before they crashed themselves.  They also fired around a hundred missiles at the fleet, for very little return.  In short, Mr President, we hurt them badly, but not enough to knock them out of the fight.”

He took a breath.  “The Russians had around sixty ships based in the harbours there and all of them were targeted,” he continued.  “We believe that we sunk, outright, forty of them, including the carrier that they had assigned to the fleet.  We don’t believe that we killed the carrier’s aircraft on the carrier – worse luck – but we probably shot down a few of them in the air battle.  If nothing else, the prospects for a renewed submarine offensive and a second invasion of Iceland have just been reduced significantly.”

“To impossible levels,” General Armstrong said.  “We have two very good National Guard divisions digging in on Iceland, with some older aircraft from the Boneyard to provide additional support, and frankly that’s overkill.  The Russians may be able to launch missile raids on Iceland, but it seems unlikely that they will be able to launch a second invasion.  They might try, of course, and I hope that they do; we would tear them a new arsehole if they try.”

Simmons smiled grimly.  “In the short term, the effects on the submarine war seem to have been minimal, but in the longer term, we should see a major degradation in the Russian ability to actually support their submarines and use them to attack us.  The Europeans may have more problems, if the Russians can force the Turks to allow them to open the Bosporus; however, we do not feel that that is a likely possibility.  We may well have scored a victory as important as the defeat of the Russians at Berlin.”

“Good,” the President said.  “What now?”

“The battle of Australia,” Simmons said.  He had prepared extensive briefing notes, but spoke from memory.  “The main body of the Pacific Fleet, with two carriers, is bearing down on the Chinese.  We had hoped that the Chinese would note what had happened to the Russians and refuse battle, but instead they have been massing their forces for the coming battle.  As the sole arsenal ship with the Pacific Fleet is being given a separate task, they may feel that they can win a struggle at sea and have been withdrawing back towards their defences in Indonesia, where they will have land-based fighters supporting the fleet.”

He grinned.  “Naturally, that was what Admiral Toland was hoping they would do,” he said.  “We have the Chinese under very close observation and are preparing a blow that will sink most of their fleet and – hopefully – cut their forces in Australia off, once and for all, from the mainland.”

The President nodded.  “I have to make a speech before Congress in half an hour,” he said.  There was so much confusion over the fact that America was fighting its first declared war for nearly seventy years that the President and his staff had been able to take the initiative.  The only price was keeping Congress informed, a task that was made harder by the ever-present security problems.  “General, please inform me at once if anything changes…and what happens in the Pacific when the two fleets finally come to blows.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Battle of Australia, Take One

Near East Timor, Indonesia

“That’s the shape of the enemy fleet,” Luke Ferguson said.  The Kelly Johnston was lucking nearly seventy kilometres from the Chinese fleet, but Captain Howery was still nervous.  The stealth ship had been closer to the Chinese ships before, but it was broad daylight and a missile could reach them within minutes if the Chinese caught a sniff of their presence.  The Kelly Johnston had only been tested in drills…and Howery hoped that it would always remain that way.  “They’re preparing to fight.”

The strategic display showed exactly why the Chinese were preparing to fight.  Two American carriers, escorted by over fifty warships, were advancing on the Chinese position, clearly preparing for a major confrontation.  It would be the first major sea battle since…since, well the Second World War; Howery doubted that any of the minor skirmishes of the Falklands War counted as a real battle.  It would be the largest single confrontation since the Battle of Leyte Gulf…and neither side had any intention of losing.

“Plot me out their defence ships,” he ordered.  The Chinese had gone completely mad in their attempts to defeat the USN through guile, rather than brute force.  The air defence ships had been bought from the French, using Project Horizon technology, something that the French Government had probably bitterly regretted before the insurgents in France had killed most of them.  The Chinese had improved the system with Japanese help; their fleet defences were second only to the British and American systems.  They had even included prototype Metalstorm weapons.  “We need to know where they are.”

“They think we have an arsenal ship along,” Lombardi said.  For once, the irrepressible officer sounded subdued; there were over two hundred Chinese surface ships and God alone knew how many submarines, gathered to face the American ships.  The Chinese had drawn their fleet together, decoy units projecting flickers of energy to attract American cruise missiles, while air defence ships were deployed outwards to provide a cover against American aircraft and missiles.  Phased-array radars and sensors probed the skies; he would have been nervous trying to slip up to the fleet in the dark.  “That can’t be for anything else.”

“We do have an arsenal ship along,” Howery commented grimly.  He knew that Admiral Toland had wanted to use the ship in the battle with the Chinese fleet and had been ordered to hold the Merrimack in reserve.  The arsenal ship had other priorities than saving American lives; Howery found that to be disgusting on a professional and private level.  “They just won’t let us use it.”

“Fucking politicians,” Lombardi swore.  “They can’t let us have any fun, can they?  First they prohibit naval officers from storing porn on naval servers, and then they forbid us to use an arsenal ship to save our lives at the cost of a few thousand Chinese lives.”

“Language,” Howery said.  He didn’t entirely disagree with the sentiments, but there wasn’t time to argue.  “Luke, where are those air defence ships?”

“We just lost a drone,” Ferguson reported grimly.  “How the hell did they do that?  Those things are meant to be invisible, pronounced invisible!”

Howery shrugged.  The Chinese were pumping out so much energy and had so many ships along that detecting a stealthy drone became much more likely.  The drone’s coating absorbed much of the radar energy, but there was always a little that was merely redirected…and that redirection might well fall on a Chinese sensor.  If it did, the Chinese would know where it was and shoot at it until they hit it.

“Doesn’t matter,” he snapped.  The Chinese would be expecting to see American drones; he could only hope that only one of them had been detected.  Drones had come a long way from the day that an Iraqi fighter had shot one of them down in an air-to-air combat, but they were still far from perfect.  This might well be the first naval battle where the fog of war was almost completely non-existent…except for the stealth craft and the submarines.  Those would be the wildcards of the war.  “The Air Defence ships?”

“Here,” Ferguson said.  “There are seven deployed out to face the fleet, with three more behind them.”

Howery nodded grimly to the weapons officer.  “Diamond, prepare to take them out on my command,” he ordered.  It would be the Kelly Johnston’s first real combat test.  “Now…we wait for the admiral and his officers to stop drinking their coffee and get into the fighting.”

***
Nearly a hundred kilometres to the east from the Kelly Johnston, Admiral Toland sat in the CIC of the USS Carl Vinson, watching as the image of the Chinese fleet built up in front of him.  The Chinese had been losing several cargo ships a day as the Allied submarines got better and better at locating and sinking Chinese stragglers, forcing them to relay on massive convoys to keep their men supplied.  Toland had encouraged the Chinese to believe that convoys were safe, or at least safer; that had drawn more Chinese combat power into the region, cut off from their bases on the Chinese mainland.  If everything went right, his force would achieve a decisive victory, but…

War is a democracy, he reminded himself, for the umpteenth time.  There was a Chinese commander in that fleet, someone who had clearly developed his own plan for facing the American ships and had an idea of how to defeat them.  That worthy would have a few tricks up his sleeve, ranging from technological tricks to stealth and guile.  Toland’s plan was as simple as it could be; he’d worked hard to take out as many possible stumbling blocks as possible, before executing the plan.  Simplicity was the key, he was sure, to victory.

The fleet was in a nasty mood.  They had all lost friends and comrades at Taiwan and a hundred minor skirmishes since.  The pride of the USN had taken a serious blow, and cruise missile raids against Russian and Chinese positions didn’t make up for the fact that they had been humiliated by the Pact.  Three carriers down, thousands of lives lost, thousands more in Chinese hands…the men of the fleet had a score to settle.  They had no intention of losing.

“ASAT One reports that the Chinese satellite is definitely manoeuvring over to see us,” the Space Warfare officer remarked.  Toland smiled to himself; the howling in Congress about the failure to deploy Project Thor, which would have ended the war in an afternoon, had resulted in a wave of additional funding and the construction of a handful of space-based weapons.  Nothing major had come out of the program yet, but it was only a matter of time.  “He is requesting permission to take it out.”

Toland nodded.  ASAT One was an F-15 Eagle, launched from an airfield in Australia after being rapidly moved to Oz and armed with an older ASAT booster.  The aircraft might have been pulled out of the Boneyard, but it was still fully functional and ready for action.  It wouldn’t last long in a modern battle, against the latest Pact aircraft, but it would serve its purpose.

”Order him to take it out,” he ordered.  Minutes passed as the display updated itself; the Chinese fleet was hanging back, preparing for action.  He had thought hard about what he would do in the shoes of his opponent, whoever he was; American Intelligence had never been able to say with any certainty which Chinese officer was commanding the deployment.  The feed from the stealth ship was more than a little useful; he could see how the Chinese expected to face a missile attack.  “Are the submarines in position?”

“Yes, Admiral,” the Submarine officer said.  “They’re ready to move ahead at your command.”

“Satellite killed, Admiral,” the Space Warfare officer reported.  “The aircraft is returning to its base now.”

“Good,” Toland said.  The Chinese wouldn’t be perfectly blind, not even now, but their ability to provide surveillance over his fleet had just taken a beating.  The only question would be what the Chinese commander would do now that he had lost a satellite.  “Well, Admiral?”  He asked.  “I know what I would do here.  What are you going to do?”

He paused.  “Let’s see how smart you really are…”

***
“Admiral, we have lost contact with the reconnaissance satellite,” an aide said.  Admiral Feng nodded once as the display altered, updating itself with the sudden loss of information.  The Americans had hammered the Chinese surveillance network hard in the last two weeks; his forces were dependent upon their orbiting AWACS and some of their intelligence from spies in the United States.  The latter were almost useless now.  “The Americans are still bearing down on us.”

Feng nodded once, thinking.  They would see the American missiles or aircraft before they came in to strike, which would give his forces time to react.  He had packed his ships in much closer than he would have liked, but with the threat of enemy submarines, he had to keep a solid wall of ASW assets between his flagship, the Chairman Mao, and the enemy submarines.  Some of the enemy submariners, the Australians in particular, were devils; one of them had come very close to killing a carrier and had sunk several destroyers before being killed himself.  He might have had three carriers to the two American carriers, but each of the American carriers carried more aircraft and firepower than one of his carriers…and they would have the advantage...

He smiled.  Unless land-based air was called into action as well.  “Contact Airbase Seven,” he ordered.  Airbase Seven had been built to support a major attack on Australia; he was surprised that enemy ships hadn’t launched a massive cruise missile attack on it before his forces had even had a chance to build up.  The American arsenal ships were clearly overrated; the Russians were merely taking refugee in claims about a super-ship.  China’s own progress in jury-rigged arsenal ships had suggested that there were major limitations in the concept.  “Order them to launch a major strike at once against the American carriers.  All other targets are secondary.”

He checked the display quickly.  “The fleet will turn and launch missiles as soon as we have precise targeting coordinates from the strike leader,” he said grimly.  They would be just inside their range…which meant that they might already be within American range.  He shook his head; there was little doubt that they were within American range – American missiles had struck further into China than they were from the American fleet.  The Americans hadn’t launched the first blow at him; he would take advantage of their mistake.  “Launch all combat aircraft and prepare to have them cover the fleet.”

The Chinese hadn’t built carriers as massive as the American ships, but they had focused more on the purpose of the carriers, rather than the American attitude.  The Americans wanted carriers that could be used as floating airbases; the Chinese had been forced to go with something a little more specialised.  The Chinese carriers were designed for air supremacy and ground support, little else.  Each one carried forty jet fighters and a handful of helicopters; the converted freighters carried Merlin fighters and helicopters for supporting the soldiers on the ground.

The ship shook slightly as the remaining aircraft launched themselves into the sky, controllers muttering orders into their microphones to ensure that the aircraft were under perfect control.  Each formation would be assigned a section of the air over the fleet to cover; there would be no accidents, or friendly-fire incidents.  Whatever the Americans did, his people would be ready to handle it, or so he hoped.

“The submarines are responding, Admiral,” the submarine officer said.  “They’re in position to launch their missiles.”

The display updated itself as the aircraft from the land airbases headed out towards the American fleet, rapidly pushing themselves past the sound barrier.  The Chinese maritime strike aircraft were adapted Russian Blackjacks, built first by the Russians and then under licence by the Chinese.  They were fast, deadly, and armed with more than a few surprises for the Americans.

“Good,” he said.  “Fire on my command.”

***
“That’s fifty-two heavy jet bombers launched from the land,” Ferguson said.  Howery watched over the young man’s shoulder and frowned as the tracks became clearer.  The Chinese looked as if they were heading for the fleet, but it would only be a slight course change before they were in a position to hit the Kelly Johnston.  “They have nearly a hundred escorting fighters.”

“I see,” Howery said.  The Chinese couldn’t see them…in theory.  Theory was crap; all it would take was an eagle-eyed Chinese pilot and they would be noticed lurking on the water.  If that happened, they would have to test out their antiaircraft weapons for the first time as well.  “Inform the flag.”

He glanced across at the weapons officer.  “I want you to maintain a lock on the aircraft as well as the Air Defence ships,” he ordered.  “If they get a sniff of us, our lives will depend on how many of them you can kill within seconds.”

***
“Clever,” Toland muttered.  The Chinese had had few options to use against his ships; he had hoped that he had brainstormed all of them and prepared counters.  It looked as if they were attempting to swarm his ships with missiles, again; the thought made him furious and nervous at the same time.  He remembered commanding on the Ford, before it had been blown out of the water by a high explosive Chinese missile; his current fleet had far fewer ships than the Multinational Force had had at the beginning of the war.  “Very clever, my friend.”

The Chinese Admiral was playing it cagey.  Uncertain, now, of the precise location of his targeted ships, he had chosen to send in the land-based air units, including some heavy bombers armed with cruise missiles.  Toland would have done the same in his position, except it was a slight mistake; the Chinese had left their carrier aircraft floating over the carriers, rather than committing them to the attack as well.  If they had massed all of their aircraft, Toland wouldn’t have been able to take a risk.

“Inform Red Squadron,” he ordered.  “They are to proceed with the attack plan at once.”  He checked the reports quickly; the Chinese didn’t seem to have prepared any other surprises for his ships, apart from a handful of submarine contacts that his ASW ships were dealing with.  “Blue Squadron is to cover us against the land-based air units.  Green Squadron is to remain on CAP.”

He picked up a microphone.  “Open a channel to every ship and aircraft,” he said.  It wasn’t normal for American combat commanders to speak to their men on the verge of a battle, but he was determined to ensure that there would be a perfect chance to gain revenge.  “Nearly eighty years ago, our ancestors fought in the Battle of Midway, thousands of kilometres from this place,” he said.  “They won an astonishing victory against the odds and crushed a powerful enemy force.  Now, we go once again to war, to crush a foe almost as bad as those our great-grandfathers fought, years ago.  This is not a foe to underestimate; remember those who died at Taiwan.”

He paused.  “Today, we take back what we lost, and honour those who died at Taiwan,” he said.  “America, the world, human civilisation itself…expects that every man will do his duty.  You may fire when ready.”

He closed the channel.  “And inform Captain Howery,” he said.  The wave of Red Squadron; Hornets moving to the attack, covered by F-35 Joint Strike Fighters, flickered into existence on the display.  “He may fire when ready to attack.”

The waves of aircraft moved closer to one another.  He watched dispassionately as both sides opened fire.  Missiles lanced from aircraft, hunting other aircraft…and pilots started to die.  The Chinese aircraft covering their fleet were beginning to change their positions, shifting into locations for defending against attacking aircraft…and only he and a few of his subordinates knew that it had been planned that way.

The trap was about to be sprung.

***
“That was the signal from the flag,” Commander Lombardi said.  “We have permission to fire when ready, Gridley.”

Howery smiled.  “Ferguson, lock in our targets,” he commanded.  The shape of the Chinese ships grew larger on the display.  The Chinese had prepared for one threat; they might have missed the second threat.  “Weapons?”

“Missiles armed and ready, Captain,” the weapons officer said.  His face was twisted with a savage joy.  “We have a perfect lock on our targets.”

“Helm?”

“We have four emergency courses programmed into the computers,” the helm officer said.  She smiled thinly.  “We’ll be moving before the hatches close.”

“Good,” Howery said.  He sat up in his chair.  “Fire!”

Chapter Thirty-Nine: The Battle of Australia, Take Two

Near East Timor, Indonesia

“Captain, the American aircraft are forming into attack vectors and closing in on us,” the radar operator said.  “I have targeting solutions forming and ready to engage at your command.”

Captain Han Wushi didn’t allow himself a smile; it would have been unprofessional.  He kept his face carefully blank as he examined the display – built with the latest Japanese technology when it was designed – and considered; the Americans were doing something careless.  Han was convinced, along with many others in the Chinese fleet, that the Americans had been top dog for so long that they were unprepared to handle a peer power when one had finally arrived.  His ship could only have been built by the Pact, not by any single country…and it was fully the equal of any American ship.  The ship had the capability to track each and every American ship and aircraft operating close to the Chinese fleet…and the Americans had had the cheek to complain about Chinese radars being too powerful, as if their radars had been weaker than the ones deployed by the Chinese.

“Excellent,” he said.  The Americans hadn’t learnt much from prior clashes with the Pact’s technologies; they were approaching at high attitude, a force of Hornets armed with Harpoon missiles…and Joint Strike Fighters escorting them.  They were clearly hoping to encounter the Chinese fighters orbiting over the fleet, but instead they would have to engage his ship…and they had no idea of how much their mistake was about to cost them.  They were about to deploy the weapons and tactics of the war on terror against a 21st Century opponent.  “Lock our weapons on the Hornets…”

It would have given him some pleasure to have destroyed the fighters; they might have included the pilots who had killed his brother, over Taiwan.  He knew his priorities, however; the aircraft that might be armed with antiship missiles came first, whatever else happened.  The American aircraft might be piloted by idiots – if they had flown low, it would have been much harder to target them – but they still represented a threat.  Captain Han was determined that there would be no threats to the fleet getting past on his watch.

His ship was armed to the teeth with weapons intended to oppose aircraft, from SAM missiles to CIWS and even Metalstorm units.  The Americans had attempted to keep the Metalstorm designs a secret, but they had forgotten one of the basic rules of science; proving that something is possible is half the battle.  The four Metalstorm units on his ships would provide him with close-in defence that would wipe aircraft from the skies…and with the amount of ammunition he had, it would be difficult for any Hornet to evade his fire as they closed in on the fleet.  There were seven ships in his force and between them, they could put up a staggering amount of fire.

“Prepare to engage,” he ordered.  “Target and…”

“Captain,” one of his officers snapped.  “Incoming missiles!”

For a long moment, too long, Captain Han’s mind refused to accept what it was seeing.  Fourteen missiles had appeared out of nowhere, skimming across the sea at speeds too great to allow them to be easily intercepted, they were lancing right at his ships.  Two missiles were heading directly towards his ship and all of his weapons had been targeted on the aircraft, which were now ducking and weaving to avoid a handful of missiles launched from his fellow ships.  They had been caught with their pants down, he realised, and the Americans were about to bugger him…

“Fire,” he snapped, hoping that they could take down a few of the enemy aircraft before it was too late.  He swung around to stare out of the porthole towards the east; was it his imagination, or did he see a streak of light heading right towards his craft?  “Get the…”

The missile impacted with the hull of his ship.  The weapon was so secret that there were only a handful in service with the United States Navy.  The shock of the impact, at speeds well beyond the speed of sound, translated the mass of the missile and a significant portion of the target area into superhot gas.  For an instant, the temperatures within the ship reassembled a nuclear explosion…and the wave of heat blasted through the ship, melting metal, detonating weapons and vaporising the crew before they had any chance to know what had happened to them.  Microseconds after the impact, the entire ship exploded and showered debris over the sea.

Captain Han went down cursing the Americans he had loathed all his life.

***
“The stealth ship strike has killed nine of the Chinese air defence destroyers,” Commander Tallyman reported.  Admiral Toland nodded; the wave of Chinese aircraft were still closing in on his ships and that was worrying, it wouldn’t be long before they could start launching missiles themselves.  “The aircraft are moving in for the kill.”

Admiral Toland glanced at his display.  It was hard for even the sophisticated systems available to the USN to see through the haze thrown up by the Kelly Johnston’s weapons.  He would have given his back teeth to have had such weapons at Taiwan, or during any of the other battles at sea; the enemy fleet would have been wiped out before they could have inflicted any real damage on his ships.

“The enemy are launching their own missiles from their aircraft,” the air defence officer reported.  “Point defence weapons are online and are moving to intercept the enemy missiles…”

“Incoming submarine launched missiles,” another officer snapped.  “Admiral, they’re launching sea-skimming missiles from their fucking submarines!”

Great minds think alike, Toland thought, in a moment of black humour.  The Chinese had clearly had their own submarines configured for missile launching; they had even used some of them in the invasion of Australia, but the remainder had been waiting to do battle with his ships.  He had to admire their forethought; they might well have managed to get in a blow on his ships, perhaps even one of his carriers.

He shuddered.  That would be very bad.

“Order the ASW helicopters to start hunting down their submarines,” he ordered.  The helicopters were useless in a general battle and couldn’t hope to face off against a jet fighter; they would be more useful tracking down enemy submarines.  If the enemy submarines could be caught before they launched all of their missiles, it might save lives in the long run.  “Prepare the fleet for possible battle damage.”

The moments raced by.  The Chinese had launched three different sets of missiles, he saw; even attacked by his aircraft, their ships had managed to launch missiles of their own towards his ships.  He snapped orders and American ships returned fire, launching their own long-range missiles towards the Chinese ships.  The battle, he saw now, was going to be nothing more than brutal moments of missile fire and long minutes of peace.

“Point defence weapons preparing to engage,” the loudspeaker said.  “All personnel, prepare for possible impacts, I repeat, prepare for possible impacts…”

The Chinese missiles swooped down on their targets.  American systems responded, launching counter-missiles and bursts of Metalstorm fire to shoot down the missiles before they hit their targets.  Some of the Chinese missiles had evasion patterns programmed in; they dodged and weaved themselves as they homed in on their targets.  The computers governing point defence – no human mind could think as fast – tied the entire fleet together into one single entity, trying to defeat the Chinese…

“Impact on a destroyer,” someone called.  Nearly two hundred Americans had just died as the wave of Chinese missiles found a handful of targets.  “Impact on Winston S. Churchill.  Impact on…”

The carrier shook violently, seconds after the alarm sounded.  Toland remembered the nightmarish battle on the Ford and shuddered helplessly as the lights flickered, before realising that the hit had been minimal.  The damage had been mainly to one of the flight lifts and the deck; annoying, but hardly fatal.  Now, they had Australia as an emergency landing zone…and the Royal Australian Air Force had managed to secure air control, even air superiority in places, over Australia.  There would be no repeat of the Taiwan debacle.

“Three Chinese submarines reported sunk,” a voice snapped.  “Our own submarines are moving in to hack down the Chinese from the rear.”

“Taking them up the arse,” someone said.

“Silence,” Toland snapped.  He looked down at the fleet status display; seven ships had taken damage and three had been sunk, including a fleet supply ship.  The choice was an odd one; he wondered if the Chinese had known what they were targeting, or if it had been just a target of opportunity.  The ship had been packed with missiles; the resulting explosion had damaged several other ships in the blast.  “Contact the guided missile armed ships; I want priority given to their own missile launchers.”

The Chinese were launching another spread of missiles.  Toland watched grimly as the air battle slowly started to melt away.  The Chinese bombers that had launched their missiles were retreating, chased by outraged Americans, while their fighters were continuing the fight.  Chinese pilots were proving better than expected, but American pilots drilled against fellow Joint Strike Fighters or F-22 Raptors.  The Chinese had had the advantage of numbers, but even that was being whittled away as the battle raged on.

“Contact the Merrimack,” he said.  Turnabout was fair play, after all.  “The strikes on the Chinese airfields are to be held until the Chinese aircraft have begun to land.”

“Yes, sir,” his aide said.  

The weapons officer looked up and grinned.   “That will teach them to do the same thing to us,” he said.  “They might even learn something from the experience.”

Toland’s eyes were drawn back towards the display.  The main flight of American aircraft were going in now…

***
“Fucking A,” Captain Violet Heppner breathed, as the Chinese ships disintegrated under her gaze.  Moments later, the updraft of superheated air shook her Hornet violently, even as she threw the aircraft through a series of evasive rolls to avoid a missile that some overzealous Chinese officer had fired in her direction.  “That was like a fucking nuke!”

“Mind on the job, Violent,” her flight leader ordered.  “Break and kill your targets, boys and girls.”

Violet smiled thinly.  The young petite pilot, half-American, half-Korean, tested frequently as the most aggressive pilot in the squadron…and Hornet pilots were known as a particularly aggressive breed.  The advances in missile technology meant that they often had to launch a missile from closer range than any sane or prudent flyer would consider, which sometimes meant flying right into the teeth of enemy fire.  It was best, Violet – who went by the coveted call sign of ‘Violent’ – had found, not to think about it.  You went in, did your job, and if you shook later back in the mess, well…there was no one in the unit who didn’t, from time to time.

“Understood, lead,” she said.  Her target had already been designated by the computers on the AWACS that were trying to control the engagement, a large Chinese carrier that might have been well protected against a high-level missile attack, but not the suicide targets that Violet and her squadron had practiced until they bled.  “Taking her in to fuck em!”

She rolled and hit the deck, flashing down towards the sea at well past the speed of sound, pushing the limits of the Hornet as far as they would go.  She half-hoped that the Chinese would mistake her for a pilot with an engine problem who was about to die, but no luck; a missile lanced out of the smoke, aimed right at her.  She evaded with a neat roll of the wings and pulled out of the dive just before she would have crashed into the water.  The smoke and fog cleared briefly, just in time to reveal a Chinese ship, close enough for her to kiss the officer on the deck, staring at her.  By the time she realised that he was there, she was well past his ship, dodging Chinese ships like she was one of the pilots in any of the nine Star Wars films, hunting for her target.

Her sensors picked up the Chinese air defence network and she shuddered.  If she flew too high, the Chinese would pick her off with ease; if she stayed low, she ran the risk of crashing into a ship at her speed.  She also knew that she was an easy target; flying by the seat of her pants required her to use her own active sensors…and every passive Chinese sensor on the fleet had to have a perfect idea of where she was.  The sheer size of the fleet was daunting, even as a missile flashed overhead to strike and cripple a destroyer; it looked as if she would never find her target…

And then it loomed out of the fleet as she headed directly towards it, a single massive carrier.  It reminded her more of the French carrier, or the British carriers that had finally entered service, than an American carrier, although some of the carrier pilots would have been happier with smaller carriers in greater numbers.  The carriers that the US had lost since the war began would take at least five years to replace, even with the two carriers that were coming out of mothballs to provide a stopgap.  Would the war last five years?”

Her computers were already tracking the target and noticed the Metalstorm pod that was turning around to fire at her, running the risk of hitting another Chinese ship to save the carrier.  The Harpoon below her aircraft detached itself and fired its engines, racing towards the carrier, even as she yanked her aircraft into a tight turn and skidded towards the carrier, just for a second, completely out of control.  Violet almost wet herself before the aircraft caught again, dancing away from the carrier at awesome speed, seconds before the Harpoon missile struck the control tower on the Chinese ship.

The results were less spectacular than the results of the stealth ship’s missiles.  The explosion shattered the command tower, hopefully killing most of the command staff, and destroyed a pair of aircraft that had just been sitting on the command deck.  A Chinese helicopter loomed out of nowhere and she blasted it with her cannon, all the while putting as much distance between her aircraft and the Chinese.

“I think you got him,” one of her flight mates said.  “I got a missile ship myself.”

“Loser,” Violet jeered.  “Lead, orders?”

“Return to patrol position,” the flight leader said.  “We may be needed for CAP duties.”

***
The explosion had been a complete surprise, even though they had known that there was an incoming missile; Admiral Feng had never been targeted by an enemy missile before the battle.  He wondered, bitterly, how a young hotshot like Commodore – Admiral - Qiu Xiaoshuai would have coped; there was blood streaming from a gash in his head.  The pain hadn’t struck yet, but Feng was certain that when it did, he would be screaming, along with far too many others in the wrecked bridge.

The bridge had been almost completely destroyed.  Feng had been lucky; he had been sitting in his command chair when the explosion had detonated.  Others had been near consoles and they had exploded when the power overloaded, or when some of the blast had found an easy way upwards; they were injured or dead.  His hand was refusing to obey his commands; it twitched and shuddered as he tried to force it to find his personal radio.  The carrier had to be badly damaged, perhaps even sinking; Feng had spent his entire life on the sea and knew how dangerous it could be.  There was nothing humorous about drowning at all.

There was someone trying to get into the bridge, someone climbing into the bridge.  Dazed, he wondered if there were Americans trying to board his ship, American Marines perhaps, armed and ready to kill old Chinese men.  He tried to turn his head, but the pain was too great; all he could do was wait and…

“Admiral?”

Feng dimly recognised the voice; it was the ship’s engineer.  They had met once, in what seemed like a different world.  A roaring noise could be heard in the distance, in his ears; something was very wrong.  “Admiral, can you hear me?”

The noise of a combat jet cut through Feng’s daze.  “Tell the fleet to retreat,” he said.  They had to preserve the carriers.  They were the pride of the PLAN and almost impossible to replace for years.  “Tell whoever’s taken command to get out and…”

Darkness.

***
“Admiral, the Chinese fleet seems to be trying to withdraw,” the reconnaissance officer said.  “Some of the ships are obviously crippled, but others are still moving, including one of the carriers.  They’re trying to escape.”

“No they fucking don’t,” Toland snapped.  He was in no mood to allow the Chinese to escape.  “I want multiple missile strikes on those damned ships; put them all down as quickly as possible, understand?”

He paused.  “And send a signal to Captain Howery; tell him I want his ship to pull back towards the rendezvous point,” he added.  A thought had just occurred to him.  “I may have a mission for him.”

The display altered again as a new flight of aircraft entered the fray; Australian aircraft from their southern bases, operating at the very limits of their range.  The Chinese aircraft, already losing the battle, seemed to take the sudden addition of the new aircraft as a sign to abandon the battle; they turned and fled back towards Indonesia.  Toland watched them go, cold hatred in his heart…and burning hot fury in his eyes.  Just a few minutes more…

“Inform the Merrimack of the airbases the aircraft land at, particularly the carrier aircraft,” he said.  They had sunk one of the carriers outright, crippled a second and the third carrier was trying to run.  It wouldn’t get far, he was determined; whatever it took, that carrier was dead.  “I want those airbases added to the top of the list.”

“Yes, sir,” the officer said.  There was a very brief pause.  “The Merrimack is reporting that it is ready to fire on your command.”

“Time to see if the politicians and those people in the Pentagon were right,” Toland said.  His reputation would have been saved by the battle; that, at least, was something he could take home with him.  “Order the Merrimack to open fire.”

The arsenal ship started to fire.

Chapter Forty: Interludes and Examinations

Hong Kong, China

The news was all about the town and everything was asunder.

Wang Xilai sat in his office and contemplated the report that lay in front of him.  Strictly speaking, he wasn’t supposed to have any copies of the report at all, but the senior officers who ran large sections of the PLA and the PLAN had little sense of computer security.  Wang and some of his friends had always had access to the innermost core of the government’s computer system; in a very real sense, they ran the entire system.  China, ironically, had few defences against such an internal attack; the irony came from the fact that China had used deep-cover agents to infiltrate and damage American interests.

He studied the report again, but it refused to change.  The propaganda specialists, the spin doctors and the politicians, would attempt to make light of the result.  The Battle of Australia was a tactical victory, they would say; the losses in ships were limited compared to the damage to the American fleet.  Chinese power didn’t depend on the PLAN, they would say, tossing the Navy to the wolves if the political uproar really got out of hand.  There would be unrest…and then it would die down again as the President and his cronies waved the bloody flag in China’s collective face.

Wang knew better.  The fleet might not have been completely destroyed, but it had been defeated and rumours had slipped out.  In typical fashion, official denials led to rumours spreading even more wildly than before, from the fleet having vanished into a black hole to the Americans having used nuclear weapons to destroy the fleet.  The Chinese might have lacked the overall American fear of nuclear weapons – a small exchange of nuclear weapons hadn’t destroyed the world, after all – but it was still worrying.  So far, China had lost relatively few of its young men in the war; the losses to the fleet were even more shocking because there was nothing to compare them to.  China had absorbed massive losses in Korea and the bitter civil war, but those days were long gone, not least now that some of the effects of the ‘one-child’ policy were beginning to bite.

He closed his eyes and thought hard.  China’s curse, in his view, was that it paid far too much attention to old men.  With only a handful of exemptions, most of the senior officers and politicians were old, often passing sixty.  There was a General who, although brave and loyal, was old enough to remember Mao and the Chinese Civil War.  They were not cowards, or incompetents, but they were…out of date.  They thought of America as the weak land that meddled freely until the going got tough; they didn’t understand America and they didn’t understand what was happening.  Age is not an accomplishment, and youth is not a sin, an American writer had once speculated, but China had never understood that one vital facet of a modern life.  They chose, instead, to rely upon the tried and tested methods…and they no longer applied.

Wang himself had been brought up in a merchant family that had entered politics.  Kady – he smiled when he thought of his friend – had once accused him of holding a higher position than he claimed, but the truth was that that was only partly true.  Wang, the newcomer, the young man from a family that actually had the audacity to make money, was regarded with suspicion by the old men.  Taiwan was not regarded as a…safe post by the Chinese; before the war, a Chinese official in Taiwan had to walk a very fine line between reminding the Taiwanese of their looming power of the mainland and not panicking them into trying to declare independence.  Everyone had known that such a declaration would bring war…but the old men had also believed that by keeping the pressure on, Taiwan would eventually return to the fold.

He had studied in America, travelling across the country with hundreds of other Chinese, some of whom had remained in America as long-term visitors, providing a vital amount of intelligence to the Chinese.  Many of them had been rounded up by the Americans as they took the gloves off…and Wang saw that as an ominous sign.  Americans…liked to be liked, they liked to think that they were liked…and yet they could be ruthless in defence of their own interests.  The old men, unable to understand the American system – in a democracy, they would have been thrown out of power at the next election – couldn’t see anything, but malice in the American shielding of Taiwan.  American ambiguity with regard to Israel only made them more puzzled; if democracies were natural allies, they asked, why did American reward Israel with one hand and punish it with the other?

Wang understood.  The blunt truth was that Americans…simply didn’t care, most of the time.  The vast majority of Americans would be satisfied if the world just left America in peace; only a small minority wanted to meddle and pay the prices involved in meddling…unless something really dramatic happened.  Pearl Harbour had been one such event, so had 9/11…and so had Taiwan.  Wang knew, now, that the Americans were intent on grinding the Chinese government out of existence…and they might well take down China as well.

The second report made grimmer reading.  The Chinese forces in Northern Australia had been trapped by the very permanent severance of their supply line.  General Cheng Xingming might have dug in to Darwin and the surrounding region – Admiral Qiu Xiaoshuai had been relieved and was likely to be executed for treason – but no one was under any illusions as to how long the Chinese could hold out.  They had enough fresh water, but food was much harder to find…and the Australians and their American allies didn’t even have to attack them.  All they had to do was wait until the Chinese started staving and then move in and take over.  Australia, once looming as the possible jewel in the Chinese crown, had become a sideshow.  The real nightmare was in Indonesia…

It was proof, in a sense, that America intended to grind China out of existence.  The Americans had had to have been in contact with the underground resistance long enough to have plotted out every possible Chinese target.  A thousand American missiles had fallen on Indonesia – finally revealing what the second American arsenal ship had been waiting for – and the revolution had begun.  Chinese soldiers had tried to fight back with the usual methods of live ammunition and gas, but the savagery of the insurgents had been unbelievable, armed with American weapons and supported by American air strikes.  Cut off from their bases, Chinese control over Indonesia was rapidly falling apart; the last radio messages from isolated units had spoken of heavy attacks and Indonesians swarming over the barricades.  The work of five years in Indonesia was being ruined…

And American Marines had seized vital economic targets before anyone could react.  Now, Wang was sure, the ethnic Chinese in Indonesia were likely to be completely slaughtered; the Americans wouldn’t lift a finger to stop them.  The entire Chinese position was on the verge of unravelling, or it would be when the news finally got out across East Asia.  No one in Beijing was under any illusions as to how loved China was in Vietnam, or Malaysia, or Thailand, or…there had been enough trouble in Vietnam when the Americans had struck the Vietnamese port with nuclear weapons.  Everyone knew that Hanoi could be the next target; the Chinese ABM network had never been extended that far south.

It wouldn’t be long, Wang knew, before the Chinese economy started to collapse as well.  It had been hurt by the sudden severance of ties to America, but extracting resources from the Japanese and the empire in the south had given it some breathing room.  It wouldn’t last; the problem was that accounting wasn’t done according to any precise standards…with the net result that if the cash flow stopped coming in, the effects would be bad, but also unpredictable.  His family had suffered already, not least because they were ‘new and untraditional rich;’ the coming crash would destroy them.  It would be worse out in the country; the peasants and farmers were already in a state of unrest because of the war and the endless corruption of their communist cadres that were intended to supervise them and prepare them for communism.  Between the insurgents in the west, the farmers who were already on the verge of revolt and the Americans, China might not have long to live.

His thoughts strayed to Kady again and he smiled.  She was blonde and strong, much smarter than she appeared and much more…lively than a Chinese girl of a proper family.  Wang knew that marriage to a westerner was out of the question – even though he had lost his virginity to an American co-ed while in America – and his family would try to arrange a match for him soon.  It wouldn’t be easy; there were far too many little princes and too few little princesses, particularly at his level.  The Communist Party’s greatest mistake had been to allow the spread of sex-selection techniques for couples in search of a son; China had been forced to literally import women into some areas.  There was a nasty streak of racism running through some elements of the Chinese culture and that, too, was having an effect.  How long would it be before the old men brought the world crashing down by trying to apply the techniques of a bygone age to the modern world?

He put his head in his hands.  The datachip on his desk seemed to be looking accusingly at him.  His old mentor, Zhi Wei, would have laughed at him.  “Save China,” she would have said.  “Save China and fuck the old men.”

His lips twitched.  Zhi Wei had indeed had to fuck a few of the old men to gain her position and it had left her with a burning hatred for the Party and the men who ran it.  She had been a core member of China’s secret opposition, which everyone knew was more than just the Falun Gong cult; the problem had been destroying or removing the old men.  Kill the President, kill a hundred, kill a thousand…and more would arise to take their place.  China wanted peace, but first it would have to dispose of the old men…and that was going to be difficult.  The Party had, more by accident than design, pulled together the armed forces and large parts of the new industries; that, too would have to be removed.  For China to be saved, America would have to win the war and win it in a way that left them grateful to some parts of China.

Wang was not naive; the naive never lasted long in the cutthroat world of Chinese politics.   Gratitude was almost worthless as an international force; Europe had shown its gratitude to America by redoubling the culture wars, before the Russians had reminded them of just how nasty the world could be.  Would America be grateful if he helped them, or would they forget, or, worst of all, would they leave him to be branded a traitor?  Wang didn’t fear death, but the disgrace to his family would be more than they could bear, and yet…

There was little doubt about it; the prisoners of war were being mistreated.  Some of it was in revenge for Chinese humiliation during previous encounters with America.  Others were using it as the crudest psychological tool; they wanted the younger men and soldiers of China implicated in criminal acts.  America had dusted off the Nuremberg Protocols; war criminals would be tried and then executed if found guilty.  The old men wanted the young men to fight hard while they remained safe and well in Beijing.

There was no choice at all.

He lifted his telephone and died a number.  He knew perfectly well that all of his calls were monitored, by some of the most sophisticated computers in Chinese possession.  They would note keywords, they would note the undertones in his very voice; if they thought that there was something wrong, they would summon human intervention and report it to their masters.  Those computers had proven beyond Wang’s reach…or the reach of any of his allies.

“Kady,” he said, as she answered.  She sounded tired and yet happy; he remembered that GNN would have ensured that she heard what had happened through her terminal.  He felt a hot spark of anger that he forced down; it was important that he remain as calm as if they were ordering dinner.  “Would you do me the honour of joining me for lunch?”

Twenty minutes later, she opened the door to her hotel room and invited him inside.  Almost all of his people in the office thought that he was fucking her; that kind of behaviour was actually encouraged, merely for blackmail purposes.  Wang knew that one of China’s sources in the American State Department was a woman who had been in Beijing as a young exchange student and had cavorted with a Chinese intelligence officer.  The photographs alone would have ruined her career; Wang knew that in China, she would never have risen to the highest levels, just because she had spent time away from her country.

Just like him.

He tapped his lips as she gave him a hug.  “In there,” he whispered, harshly.  Kady had checked the room for bugs, but he was aware of just how careful and manipulative the Chinese Intelligence Service was; they would have more than one bug in a place that was hard to find.  The bathroom was larger than the flat he had stayed in when he had come to the city as a young man; the bath itself could have held three people lying together.  “Water.”

Kady nodded and turned on the taps.  Water splashed down, making a noise that would damage any sensor, but Wang wasn’t taking chances.  The device he pulled out of his pocket was technically illegal in China, but everyone who was anyone had one; it would somehow take the noise of the bath taps and amplify the noise at a level that was impossible to hear, but would somehow disrupt the bugs.  Or something; Wang had never claimed to be an expert in counter-surveillance techniques.  It was all technobabble to him.

“I was watching Sluggy Freelance V: Oceans Unmoving,” Kady muttered, her mouth very close to his ear.  “We should have just left that on.”

“At the moment, they think we’re doing something kinky with the bathtub,” Wang muttered back.  The thought – and the rising steam – almost made him stir.  He wanted her at that moment, wanted her like nothing ever before.  “We won’t have long, however; here.”

He passed her the datachip.  “That’s the locations and the prisoner lists,” he said.  He felt his heart beating rapidly and knew that it wasn’t just her presence that was causing him to almost panic.  He had just stepped over a line and knew it.  “I don’t know how long they will remain there; you caused a lot of panic when you bombarded Indonesia.  You might want to offer to trade the prisoners for Chinese soldiers captured by the insurgents, if they are still alive when you get your hands on them.”

“You’re a brave man,” Kady said.  Unexpectedly, she pressed her mouth against his and they kissed.  Her lips felt hot and wet against his lips; at that moment, he felt as if he could rule the world.  He wanted her, but there wasn’t time.  “What do you want to do?”

There was a world of promise in her smile.  “I think we have to go have lunch,” Wang said.  He turned off the taps and made a loud kissing noise for the benefit of the microphones.  “Get your clothes on and let’s go.”

Kady gave him a dark look.  She had never taken her clothes off.  “Coming,” she said.  “Where are we going?”

The hotel itself had been created for tourists, but someone hadn’t done a good job of predicting the demand for tourism, past the return of Hong Kong.  It was massive and ornate, but only a few of the rooms had been taken, and only then at knock-down prices.  The war had cut off most tourists from coming to China…and the hotel had never been well patronised anyway.  It was, Wang suspected, a key part of the black market; the hotel had a large ration allowance, far larger than it would need if it was completely full.  The only other guests in the lounge was a Latino man and three young Chinese girls, the oldest looking no older than fourteen, who cast a look at them and then returned to his meal.

“Tell them back home,” Wang said.  He didn’t dare speak openly, not here; the man might well be a police officer.  “Tell them that we will be expecting something in return.”

Kady nodded as the waitress came with the menus.  She was wearing a French maid’s outfit that left nothing to the imagination.  Wang had heard rumours that guests could just sneak up behind the maids and slip inside without preliminaries, but even with that tourist attraction, the hotel was almost empty.

“I see,” she said, watching as the underside of the waitress’s buttocks marched away.  Wang wondered, just for a moment, what the waitress’s price would be; she would have come in to the city from the countryside and had been awesomely lucky to have gotten even the paltry wages that came with serving the hotel.  He found it a sign of just how far China had fallen; the girl had no choice, but to almost prostitute herself to survive.  “What do you want?”

“Your help when we need it,” Wang said.  He smiled, as if they were discussing a business transaction.  “That’s all we ask.”

For the remainder of the meal, they talked of other things.

Chapter Forty-One: Countdown to Armageddon, Take One

Front Lines, Germany

“In short, General, we believe that there is a very good chance that you may face an attack from the Russians, perhaps as soon as a week from today,” the American said.  “Can your lines hold against such an attack?”

General Trautman paused to consider.  He disliked teleconferences on general principles, not least because it created a security risk, even though the latest in American encryption technology had been used to keep the line secure.  He would have been much happier with a face-to-face meeting, but the dangers of the Russians lobbing a handful of cruise missiles towards their location were too great.  If he was killed, he couldn’t afford to have any delay between his death and the American General Geoffrey Bradford Wilkinson taking command.  Seconds could prove fatal in modern war.

“I believe that they can,” he said.  He studied David Simmons for the moment, knowing that there was more to him than just a Special Advisor to the President.  French Intelligence had suggested that Simmons was one of the President’s private intelligence operatives; nothing Trautman had seen had ruined that impression.  “At the moment, we have several divisions held in reserve and a set of proper defence lines to hold the enemy and hopefully push them into killing zones.”

He smiled.  Thousands upon thousands of Germans had worked overtime on the defences, including thousands of refugees from the east.  Others had been conscripted into the newer units being raised for combat and would be taking their place in the lines soon.  For the first time, he was genuinely confident that he could hold any offensive that could be launched by the Russians.

“The stocks of artillery and other weapons, although not as high as I would like them to be, have enough reserves to hold out for at least a week until heavy attack,” he continued.  “The deployment of the new mobile air defence units and additional orbital surveillance microsats has allowed us to free up our own aircraft for air supremacy and deep strikes behind the Russian lines…”

He spoke on, outlining the massive force under his command, perhaps the most powerful that had ever been created on the European continent, or at least the most powerful NATO force.  Hundreds of thousands of men from nine different countries – Germany, France, Britain, Spain, Italy, Portugal, Canada, Poland and America – armed and ready to fight to hold the line against the Russians.  Only a few miles away, the Russian commander would be studying Trautman’s dispositions and – perhaps – realising that the Russians had lost their opportunity to win a strategic victory.  Conscript units, mainly infantry, were coming online to replace the catastrophic early losses; EUROFOR would be finally living up to its name…

And yet there was the vexing question of the spy.  A dozen different intelligence services had worked through the massive task of trying to locate someone – anyone – whose story didn’t quite add up.  There were thousands of possible suspects – Americans had used to joke that EUROFOR had more bureaucrats than soldiers and there had been a nasty element of truth in the joke – even though many of them had been killed when Russian missiles had struck EUROFOR HQ in Brussels.  Trautman’s lips twitched; the Russians had almost done them a favour.

“Warfare is not a certain business,” he concluded.  “The Russians, however, will have to crack through our defensive lines in order to win and we have the mobile reserves – finally – to plug the gap, should they manage to force their way through.”

The Chancellor coughed.  “You have, however, made the decision to abandon Berlin – again,” he said.  Trautman kept his face carefully impassive, hiding his surprise and cold, cold fury.  “Is there a sensible reason for that decision?”

He meant; was that decision made under American pressure?  Trautman watched as some of the other faces on the display twitched in recognition of the unaskable question.  The war was political and always had been political; Trautman’s own position as SACEUR was proof of that, but at the same time Europe worried that America might be willing to push the war to the point where Europe would be devastated by the Russians, incidentally ending the threat to the American economy from the European Union.  A devastated Berlin would cost thousands of Euros to even begin fixing it…and billions before the city was back to its original state.

“First of all, Berlin has not been abandoned,” Trautman said.  “There are four infantry divisions with heavy support dug into the city.”  He missed the Berlin Wall; it would have been much easier to defend.  Politically, Berlin could not be abandoned; it was as simple as that.  “The problem, however, is that the Russians are in a perfect position to cut off the forces that we had outside the city and prevent them from either withdrawing into the city, or escaping to our lines.  Militarily speaking, the longer our lines are – and they are already longer than I feel comfortable with – the more chance of a Russian breakthrough.  I therefore made the decision to withdraw most of our armoured units from the salient surrounding Berlin.

“The blunt truth is that the Russians will be able to pick the time and location of the coming battle,” he continued.  “We may have warning from overhead reconnaissance, but it would be unwise to count on it; the Russians are past masters at hiding their movements until it is too late for us to react.  We face games theory at its worst; we have to minimise the maximum gains of our opponent…and he has the first move.  If we present him with a tempting target…”

He shrugged.  “That target is likely to be their main target,” he concluded.  “We dare not risk catastrophic losses in the first few hours of the battle.”

“Which does, however, lead us to a different problem,” Simmons said.  “There is a very strong chance that the Russians will use nuclear weapons in Europe.”

The Chancellor paled.  “They wouldn’t do that…”

“Indulge me,” the British Prime Minister said.  “Why wouldn’t they?”

Trautman felt his blood run cold.  Nuclear weapons had had only one combat test, during the Indo-Pak War, and military forces from all over the world had studied the results with interest.  Pakistanis had tried to nuke Indian ground forces and bases; Indians had tried to do the same to Pakistanis.  The results had been interesting…and grim; the nukes had been in some case less effective than they had been predicted to be, and in other cases more effective.  Dug-in soldiers tended to have a chance at survival; soldiers out in the open were lucky to be killed outright.  EUROFOR had prepared as best as it could, but there were serious shortages of the required equipment.

“It would be horrendously uncivilised,” the Chancellor said, grasping madly to articulate his sheer horror at the thought of nuclear weapons devastating his country.  It was the old worry; was America’s BMD shield making them willing to gamble on the use of tactical nukes elsewhere?  “No one in their right mind would authorise the use of nuclear weapons in a country full of civilians and refugees.  The death toll would be horrifying…”

“The fact remains,” Simmons said, “that we have a clear indication that at least one of the FSB units charged with guarding and using Russian nuclear weapons – the 3rd FSB Special Weapons Division – has been moved to Germany.  Don’t be fooled by the name; the 3rd FSB is a combat unit in all, but name; it has armoured vehicles, tanks, and artillery.  The heavy guns with it are intended to hurl nuclear-tipped shells into combat…and if they set up amidst the other Russian guns, they may well remain undetected until after it is too late.”

General Geoffrey Bradford Wilkinson coughed.  “I have been authorised to inform you that three nuclear weapons units, one American, one British, one French” – Trautman didn’t miss the look that the Chancellor shot the French President, a mixture of fear and betrayal – “have been placed in the reserves.  We have no intention of going nuclear, but if the Russians launch nuclear weapons, we have no choice, but to retaliate in kind.”

The Chancellor glared at the Frenchman.  “Marcel, your predecessor used to refer to the Russians as uncivilised brutes, but even he wouldn’t have believed that the Russians would stoop to using nuclear weapons against civilian targets.  Tell them its madness…”

Yacef sighed.  Trautman studied him thoughtfully, noting the strange blend of Arab and Mediterranean features that made up his face, an Arab Frenchman running the National Front.  It was…perverse, to his eyes; the counterpart of a Jew organising and running the Waffen-SS.  And yet…there were signs that in Marcel Yacef, France might have found its first great President since Charles DeGualle had died.

“The world that my predecessor inhabited is no more,” Marcel Yacef said finally.  “In a very real sense, it never existed; all that existed was his need to believe that France counted for far more than it would appear.  His dream was already dying because of the EUROFOR controversy and the economic slump that forced millions out of work.  His dream was one where everyone would obey the rules of law, but law is meaningless unless we have some way of enforcing it.

“And we don’t, not any longer,” he said softly.  His face looked, just for a moment, older than he really was.  “We allowed the Russians to build up the economic clout in the east that they used to keep Poland and the other states weak.  We kept telling ourselves that the Russians needed us, but the truth was that our ability to affect them in any way, short of direct military force, was limited.  Instead of building EUROFOR a decade earlier, we kept telling ourselves that it was going to be fine and dandy if we kept our eyes covered…and we were wrong.

“No, Hans, I don’t like the thought of nuclear weapons detonating in Germany, or France, or Britain,” he concluded gently.  “I just feel that if the Russians are as desperate as Mr Simmons believes, then we have no choice, but to expect and prepare for the worst.”

“But the people,” the Chancellor protested.  “The Russians have established bases in German and Polish cities; are we going to target them to force them out or are we going to actually unleash nuclear fire on them?  What about the thousands of unprotected refugees?  What can we do that will safeguard them from being killed in their thousands?”

“Make sure the Russians know that we are prepared to use nukes ourselves,” an American said.

“Impossible,” the Chancellor said.  He glared into the camera.  “I forbid the use of nuclear weapons on German soil.”

Trautman took a breath.  He was the only one who could talk the Chancellor round…and at the same time, he understood, even sympathised, with the man’s position.  Chancellor Hans Konigsberg hadn’t been elected to his role, but instead he had merely been on a list of possible successors, when the Russians destroyed large chunks of the German government.  Even so, he felt for Germany and cared – perhaps too much – for the people he had suddenly been elevated to rule.

“Herr Chancellor, we have no choice,” he said.

The Chancellor stared at him.  “Eu tu, brute?”

Trautman pressed on.  “At the moment, the Russians have a good chance of devastating our lines and reserves with nuclear weapons,” he said.  EUROFOR had deployed as best as it could to prevent a major nuclear strike from destroying the entire force, but the odds were that the Russians would devastate the lines with only a handful of nukes.  “If they do that, they will burn holes right through our lines and then charge into the holes.  Some of the weapons are not radioactive enough to pose a serious danger, but if their troops get amongst our troops, we will find it impossible to deploy our own nuclear weapons without killing our own men as well.

“If they do hit us, we will have serious problems restoring the line anywhere short of France,” he continued.  “We will have no choice – we have no choice – but to hit back at their deployable forces and ruin them before they can hit us, whatever it takes to accomplish that.  The only way to do that is through nuclear weapons.”

“And if nukes are used convincingly, it might put the Russians off the idea of using them to blackmail us into submission,” Wilkinson said.  The American General nodded once to Trautman.  “That, too, remains a danger.”

The argument raged on, but the outcome was inevitable.  After an hour, the Chancellor finally – reluctantly – agreed to allow the deployment of nuclear weapons, provided that Trautman himself held the authority to fire the weapons, should they be needed.  The Americans and British agreed; the French officially kept their weapons under their control, but privately agreed with the Chancellor.

Trautman kept his own consul.  There was one detail that the Chancellor had missed.  Any of the nuclear powers could fire their weapons…with or without his concurrence.

It would only have upset him.

***
Nearly thirty kilometres to the east, Major Vladimir Ivanov stood to attention with the rest of the command staff as General Damitri Socrov entered the command bunker.  Ivanov, like all Russian officers, was very practiced at keeping his face under firm control, but the appearance of Socrov almost made him gasp.  The FSB officer was very tall and very thin – in contrast to the regular army stereotype that all FSB officers were fat – and very pale, almost like a vampire.  There was no humour in the thought; the FSB could be relied upon to suck all of the fun out of any situation.  

Ivanov relaxed as Socrov ordered the group to relax – slightly.  Captain Anna Ossipavo was gone, back to Russia with General Aleksandr Shalenko; their General had left them at the mercy of the FSB officer.  Ivanov shared Shalenko’s attitude towards the FSB; they were only good for supervising the penal battalions and hopefully leading them in person.  Their record in Poland was second only to Hitler’s legions for brutality and sheer unpleasantness; Socrov himself, or so the rumour went, had spent far too much time with the comfort women and less tome supervising his people.

“We have orders from the very highest levels,” Socrov said, his cold voice cutting through the air.  Ivanov had known girls who had been resistant to his charms who had had warmer voices than Socrov grim cold voice.  “In a week, no less, we are to mount a major attack against the enemy forces, break through, and march all the way to Paris.”

With that, Ivanov knew that Socrov had blown his credibility as a military officer out of the water.  Poland had been an easy target; most of the Polish forces had been positioned along the border and once they had been destroyed, the Russians had only had to worry about the remains of EUROFOR.  Germany, fully-alert and ready for the coming struggle, was not such an easy target…and they were backed up by America and the rest of the European Union.  A march to Paris was not in the cards.  Shalenko might have drawn up plans for a limited attack, but they would have to be aimed at destroying the European armies, not at marching to Paris.

“We also have the advantage of nuclear weapons and the willingness to use them,” Socrov continued.  “Major Ivanov, what are the current plans for an attack?”

Ivanov saluted.  “There are four tank units, backed up by infantry, aimed at trapping and destroying the main body of the European and American forces facing us,” he said.  “Several specialised units were intended to destroy German tanks positioned outside Berlin, but the Europeans withdrew most of their tanks and the mission was altered to become sealing off Berlin – again.  The air force was…”

He spoke quickly and sharply, knowing that his life now depended upon his ability to convince Socrov that only a limited attack had any chance at all of actually succeeding.  The FSB Officer didn’t look convinced; the position of the European armies looked weak, but Ivanov knew that it would require a major attack to shift them…and the best and brightest of Russia’s forces had been seriously weakened by the first Battle of Berlin.  The forces that Socrov would command were much weaker…

“Regardless, the attack will go ahead,” Socrov ordered, after Ivanov had finished.  “We must take and occupy Berlin, and we must trap the European armies.  Major, ensure that all units are properly prepared for action; the attack will be launched in a week.”

Ivanov opened his mouth, saw Socrov’s expression, and closed it again.  The Pact had suffered back in Indonesia…and there was a strong suggestion that Japan, at any moment, would declare war on the Pact.  If that happened, then the Pact was on the verge of losing the war…and desperate men did desperate things.

“I understand,” he said, wishing that Shalenko was back in command.  He wouldn’t allow his men to be wasted like this, would he?  “I will issue the orders as you have commanded.

Chapter Forty-Two: Countdown to Armageddon, Take Two

Outside Marseille, France

The camp stank to high heaven.

“That is disgusting,” Eugene Lockwood said, as they walked around the secure perimeter.  Armed guards, holding weapons that would be almost useless in a real fight, glared at the two men as they walked east on the road out of the city.  Their charges, Arab women and children, seemed utterly broken by the hell they had gone though; they barely looked up from where they were sitting, or pacing relentlessly around the camp.  “Why are you allowing this to happen?

Dominique Dubois muttered a word under his breath.  “I have very little to do with the new government,” he reminded Lockwood dryly.  The French hired gun seemed unaffected by the hell that the women and children were going through.  “Finally, they take the right course of action…and they have nothing to do with me.”

Lockwood stared at him.  “I have worked in the Middle East, American,” Dubois said.  He leered cheerfully towards one of the women, who showed no reaction.  “I know it far better than any American and let me tell you, it is rotten to the core.  Thousands of Arabs sign up for the Foreign Legion; only a handful of them will make it past the stage of poor-bastard-who-gets-sent-on-suicide-missions.  Oil was the worst thing that could happen to them; they gained the wealth without any sense of prudence, or any sense that they were entering a world where little details like beheading a woman for looking at a man is no longer…kosher.”

He snickered unpleasantly.  Lockwood, who had listened to Dubois ranting about the Jews, the Arabs, the Germans, the Russians and even the Americans – all nationalities he had blamed for the reduction in work and money for his people – wasn’t entirely surprised.  Dubois, like most commandos, had a filthy mind and a certain delight in seeing the enemies of his country humiliated.  He, at least, would have seen nothing wrong in lining up the Arab insurgents and gunning them all down; he had even spoken in favour of the Holocaust and the gas chambers.

Dubois was, in short, not a particularly nice man.  Lockwood had met plenty of Special Forces soldiers from around the world, however, and none of them had been particularly refined in the standard sense of the word.  Fine dining, comfortable living and courtesy were alien to many of them; they rarely allowed themselves to get comfortable anywhere.  Dubois himself had once admitted that he was only really comfortable in the roughest and nastiest parts of France; he had even claimed to be disappointed when the insurgency had failed to spread into his section of town.

“You Americans have the delusion that you can bring them to democracy,” Dubois concluded.  He waved a hand towards a damaged village, devastated by one side or the other in the fighting.  “You could not be more wrong, but then…you went and supported the people doing most of the oppressing, so naturally…”

“I know that,” Lockwood snapped.  There were limits to his patience.  “We Americans are responsible for everything, including, I might add, saving France’s butt in three world wars.”

“I never said that I was ungrateful,” Dubois said.  Having managed to get on Lockwood’s nerves, he smiled triumphantly and relaxed.  “Still, it’s hard to be annoyed with you when you send such good business my way.”

They walked the rest of the way towards the airfield in silence.  The air was disturbed, occasionally, by the sound of military jets heading east; there was still a war on in the Mediterranean, after all.  Lockwood had managed to check the military datanet, only to discover that there were still Russian submarines in the Mediterranean, trying their hardest to sink as much European shipping as possible.  Turkey was officially neutral in the war, but it was still allowing Russian submarines in and out of the Black Sea; the protests from Washington hadn’t impressed the Turks, who were living right next door to the Russian bear.

“We get in through the hedgerow,” Dubois said softly, as the road turned away from the airfield.  The sound of aircraft grew louder.  “Don’t attempt to do anything stupid, like drawing your weapon; this is a high security site and just because you can’t see any guards…believe me, they’re there.”

Lockwood glanced around as they passed through, encountering a fence that had been carefully hidden from the road, which had a gate and a passkey box.  Dubois tapped in a code and the gate opened, allowing them entry into the compound.  Lockwood smiled to himself as he spotted the hidden sensors, and then frowned as he saw the three men with dogs who were patrolling, some distance away from them.  The compound was obviously not intending to allow anyone entrance without the correct passkey.

The airfield itself looked almost deserted.  Lockwood wouldn’t have given it a second thought if he had been a civilian, but his practiced eye noticed…odd points all around the airfield, some of them odd enough to warrant real confusion.  The runways were longer than most commercial airfields ever required, and the entire set of aircraft hangers were guarded by armed men, while watchtowers watched over the compound and the surrounding region.  In all, but name, it was a military base.

“Answer me a question,” he said.  It had been nagging at him ever since he had first seen Dubois.  “Why does the French Government allow all of…this to happen on its soil?”

Dubois seemed almost willing to answer the question honestly.  “Not all of it does happen here,” he said, seriously.  “We will certainly not be using this as a base for doing anything…that needs to be denied by the French Government, may the last President catch something unpleasant in Hell.  As far as the old government was concerned – God knows what the new government will make of us – we were an expandable deniable assert, a tool that could be used for purposes that the French Government – or your own, for that matter – would prefer never saw the light of day.”

He paused.  “Have you ever read The Dogs of War?”

“Required reading in Special Forces,” Lockwood said.

“That’s what we did, what we do,” Dubois said.  His voice had shifted; he sounded almost tired and bitter.  “When one faction that was pro-France needed help, we went in, armed them, trained them, often helped them launch their coups, or keep their forces in power.  France got contracts, allies and money out of the deal; we got very little and then…when we died, we were never remembered in song and story.”

Lockwood smiled thinly.  “You’re bitter,” he said.  “You chose this life.”

Dubois’s eyes glittered.  “It was that or the French version of Leavenworth,” he said.  “There was an unfortunate incident with a girl in some godforsaken Arab town and I was made to carry the can, as you Americans would say.”  He paused.  “Rather like you Americans getting the blame for every civilian death in the Middle East, even places that you weren’t trying to bomb at all, or even Vietnam.  Why don’t you just lock up a few reporters from time to time?

“But anyway, this place is just a base of operations,” he continued.  “Normally, we would operate from a base closer to the field of operations, but now…”

His voice broke off as two armed guards loomed up in front of them, AK-47s raised and pointed directly at their chests.  Lockwood studied them as Dubois passed over his identity card; AK-47s were about as anonymous a weapon as you could get.  There were literally millions of them floating around the world, hundreds dumped on the world market after Saddam fell from power, thousands more sold off by the Russians to countless African warlords.  The guards themselves might have looked ragtag, but there was an air of competence around them, rather than the slackness of most tribal warriors he had encountered, or the Jihadis who believed that fervour and religious determination made up for training and discipline.

“Pass, friend,” the leader said, opening the door.  His eyes glinted with amusement.  “You may both pass.”

“They would have been sacked if they hadn’t checked me,” Dubois said.  Lockwood nodded; there were places in America where even the President couldn’t go without passing through security.  More than a few dignities had been sacrificed on the alter of the great god security.  “We don’t go in for spit and polish here, but God help the man who leaves his weapon unserviced, or does anything else stupid that will ruin the mission.”

Inside, the air was nice and cool, with only a set of corridors leading down to the operations room.  Lockwood felt instantly at home; it was just the same as a Special Forces deployment base from America, with a large set of tables covered by computers and maps.  The map of Central Asia was prominent; he hoped that meant that the planning staff – who were apparently not connected to the operations staff – were working on solving the problem.

“Here we are, my home away from my home away from home,” Dubois said.  He took a chair and waved Lockwood to another chair.  There was no one else in the room.  “So, what do you have for me?”

Lockwood hesitated.  “Is this room secure?”

“It’s rated secure-one,” Dubois said, seriously.  “You can rely on the protections here to prevent anything getting out; we don’t even have radios or microburst transmitters in the main portion of the base.”

“Good,” Lockwood said.  He glanced down at a projector.  “May I?”

Dubois nodded.  Lockwood pulled out a datachip and plugged it into a USB port, scrolling past the warnings about the information on the chip being classified US Government property to the main piece of information, as he had been briefed back in England by the intelligence services.

“I'm not used to briefing people, so you will have to bear with me a little,” Lockwood said, as the first image came up on the screen.  “This is a Chinese prison camp, located in north-west China.  As you can see, it’s not a friendly place…and it has our people there, including at least seventeen Frenchmen.  There are, in fact, around two thousand prisoners there, two hundred of them women.”

“Must be tricky at nine-to-two,” Dubois commented dryly.  “The guards must be getting their rocks hauled a lot.  Are the barracks segregated?”

“Unknown,” Lockwood snapped.  He wasn’t in the mood for jokes about sex slaves.  “Our source was able to tell us how many people there were in the camp, and what their names were, but he was short on actual tactical details like the defences.”

“So, in effect, Bonzo or whoever your source is might be leading us into a trap,” Dubois snapped back.  “What has your vaunted orbital intelligence assets been able to tell you about the camps?”

Lockwood altered the image on the display.  “This information doesn’t leave this room,” he said.  Dubois nodded once.  “The NRO has had the place under constant surveillance since we were told about it, two days ago.  Hundreds of sensors, some of them classified beyond even my reach, have been turned on it…all without the Chinese suspecting a thing.  There are around two thousand, five hundred people in the camps; the majority of them being concentrated in this section here, which holds around five hundred prisoners to a barracks.  The overcrowding must be horrendous.

“We have actually been able to identify a surprisingly high number of prisoners,” he continued.  “We lack precise information from some of the other countries, allied to the US, but we have been able to match up nearly four hundred names and faces to known prisoners, who were on the list.  All in all, the NRO believes that there is a very good chance that our prisoners – in fact – are there.  It’s enough for the president to order the unleashing of a new weapons system to help us out.”

Dubois lifted an eyebrow.  “Weapons system?”

Lockwood smiled.  “More on that in a moment,” he said.  “Given the reports from the NRO, the defenders of the camp – the guards and such like – make up the main body of the five hundred people who are not prisoners.  The camp itself is defended as if they expect an attack; there are SAM launchers and even a handful of armoured vehicles nearby, as well as a large garrison only a mile away from the camp.  The garrison is actually armed as if they expect a revolution…”

“They probably do,” Dubois said.  He smiled as he studied the display.  “Sinkiang is known for having a lot of people who would prefer to worship Allah instead of Mao…and from time to time they rebel.  The Uyghur people are well known for disliking Chinese…imperialism, from the attempts to punish them for being Muslims to the forced integration of their people with the Chinese.  There are even rumours that the Han Chinese are taking female children from their mothers and sending them into China for marriage to Chinese men.”

Lockwood stared at him.  “Is that true?”

“I have no idea,” Dubois said.  “I will tell you that the Uyghur people have been marginalized for the last decade or so and Beijing’s unofficial policy is to make them Chinese in thought and deed.  They have links to Afghanistan and Kazakhstan and with groups of radical Islamic fanatics – you’ll have to watch for that in Indonesia, by the way – growing there, China’s leaders are troubled.  The last thing they want or need is a rebellion in the rear now, not after you kicked their butts so convincingly in Australia and Indonesia.  Still…is there anything else you have to tell me?”

Lockwood smiled.  “I’ll tell you about the new weapons system later,” he said.  “The President is determined that we have the force on the ground, freeing our people, within a week, perhaps less.  I have a force of Airborne infantry who are armed and ready for the operation…and now, all you have to do is tell me how to get them there.”

“Some of my people are coming along,” Dubois said.  He held up a hand.  “It’s not arguable…and I’m coming as well.  I assume that you are leading the mission?”  Lockwood nodded.  “Good; saves me the time and effort of breaking in someone else.  I’ve been working on the problem, as you know, and one thing is clear; it’s not going to be easy.”

He tapped the display to illuminate his point.  “I was hoping to find an airfield near the camp,” he said.  “Without it, it would have probably been impossible to do as you wanted and land near the camp.  We had a lucky break, in that the Chinese government purchased several dozen heavy-lift transport aircraft from us before the war broke out, so we can use six similar aircraft to actually mount the attack.  Each of them can hold four hundred people, so that is the upper limit for how many people we can move in and out of the region.  We may be able to secure a few more aircraft in Kazakhstan, but there is no way of being sure about that.”

He grinned.  “These aircraft have been modified for service in Africa and have some precision weapons loaded onboard,” he said.  “The Chinese will be in for a rude surprise when we launch our attack.  Of course, we will have to bribe several dozen local officials, or else we will have fighter aircraft coming after us with bad intentions.  I submit to you that that is not what we want.”

Lockwood nodded dryly.  “No,” he agreed.  “What happens next?”

“Why, your people secure the camp, kill the guards and then we load your people onto the aircraft,” Dubois said.  He tapped the display again.  There was still one major problem.  “I take it that your State Department actually managed to get the Turks to agree?”

Lockwood nodded.  “Ballsy of them – both of them – but the Turks agreed that we could land on their territory,” he said.  “I don’t envy them; the Chinese are allied to the Russians, who will be really pissed.  If worst comes to the worst, we’ll get a tanker flown in from Greece and use that to make our escape to Italy.  What about the warlords in Kazakhstan?”

Dubois smiled thinly.  “Leave that to me,” he said.  “If we pay them enough, whatever they may say about Islam, they will sell their daughters to be gang-raped.  Money is power there, and American money is the most powerful and they all like cocking a snook at Russia.  Those that don’t take our money will be overthrown by their own subordinates…”

“Nice place to live,” Lockwood said.

They shared a laugh.  “If you’re a man,” Dubois said.  He leered suddenly.  “If you’re a woman, it’s hell from birth to death.  When you’re born, you are a slave to your male relatives; when you’re married, you become a slave to your mother-in-law and your husband’s relatives.  You could be traded for a goat…”

“You’ll be a hero if this works,” Lockwood said, ignoring the comment.  He saw now that he had underestimated Dubois; the mission could be performed successfully.  “And yes, you will be paid.”

“I just want the money,” Dubois said.  “If someone – anyone – learns that I have been involved in this, it will just mean more money on my head by people who might just be actually able to claim it.  In France, Monsieur, heroism is often a dirty word.”

Chapter Forty-Three: Slow Death Row, Take One

Sinkiang, North China

Lieutenant Stephanie Tsuji swung the pickaxe at a piece of rock and watched as it split open.  Moments later, a second team of prisoners of war picked up the debris and carted it away, apparently for the benefit of a new and vastly improved road through whatever Chinese province they happened to be in.  She had deduced, through a chance sighting of a woman wearing a headscarf, that they were in one of the Muslim regions of China, but they knew nothing else about their location.  The Chinese Muslims had been savagely suppressed after the destruction of Pakistan…and that was the sum total of all of their knowledge about the region.  The POWs were completely ignorant of the locals…and the guards clearly worked hard to keep the locals from coming near the camp.

She smashed down at another bit of work and bit back a curse.  It wasn’t as if they were doing anything useful, after all; the Chinese clearly didn’t want them doing anything that could be harmful to Chinese interests.  The pickaxes were hardly dangerous weapons, but she had been shackled to other prisoners and to the tools; an escape attempt using the tools as weapons could only end in tragedy.  A few hopeful fantasies of finding the components to make gunpowder had remained fantasies; so far, all they’d found was rock, rock and more rock, which the Chinese had informed them was going to be used in road-building.  For nearly three weeks, the POWs had been worked hard on breaking rock, a task that could have been accomplished within hours by a single machine.

The first attempts to refuse to perform war-related work had ended in failure.  The Chinese hadn’t bothered with extreme punishments, or even a handful of pointed executions; they’d just cut off the food and other rations to the prisoners.  Three days later, the strike had been broken and three prisoners were gravely ill in the barracks’ hospital.  The POWs had reluctantly concluded that resistance was futile; they would have to wait and see what they could learn about their circumstances before they could even begin to plan an escape.  Stephanie was the closest thing to a real expert on China they had…and she was only now beginning to be aware of her limitations as an expert.  She knew nothing helpful about where they were…and even if she had known, escape seemed to be almost impossible.  Some of the POWs were confident that they could dig a tunnel out, but where could they come up that wasn’t covered by gun positions and heavy patrols?

“Bugger this for a game of soldiers,” a British voice muttered.  Talking was officially forbidden, but the Chinese guards didn’t seem to care as long as they performed their work and stayed quiet when their senior officers were coming around to inspect the prisoners.  Some of the senior officers had their eye on the female prisoners; Stephanie had taken care to make herself as unattractive as possible.  It didn’t help that the one and only Japanese among the prisoners – actually the son of Japanese immigrants to America – had been badly abused by the Chinese, whose hatred for Japan was a legend.  The guards had claimed, more than once, that Japan and much of the NATO alliance had been destroyed; standing in the POW camp, watching the world go by, Stephanie could almost believe it.

The whistle blew.  Stephanie sighed in relief, but didn’t drop her axe; the Chinese guards sometimes beat prisoners who damaged their tools purposefully.  Instead, she waited until her position on the axe gang moved along and followed her partner, shambling along the long rocky path back towards the camp.  The airfield was on the other side of the camp, but there had been no other aircraft, or even no other prisoners…and they had been warned that it was death to even try to go near the airfield.  The camp itself – and the guards waiting for them – was ahead of them, along with the sheep’s skull that someone had hung on the entrance to the camp, as a joke.  Stephanie wasn’t laughing and knew that none of the other POWs would be laughing either.  The joke wasn't funny.

“Present your tools to the guards,” the Chinese officer said.  He rarely spoke in Mandarin, Stephanie had noticed; some of his words were in a language that she didn’t understand at all.  His face was strange, too; a mixture of Chinese and…something else.  She had wondered if it was Arabic, or perhaps Pakistani; the tribes in Central Asia, she had once read, took little notice of the guards.  “Do not attempt to keep a tool.”

Stephanie held out her axe as the guards moved along the line.  No one would forget the beating handed out to an American who had tried to keep a small axe hidden, having somehow managed to remove it from his wrist; the man had almost died under the Chinese canes.  The guard took her hand, took one quick look at her breasts, and then swiped the axe with a magnetic security key.  He was one of the decent ones; she had met guards who had thought it was fun to grope her during random searches.

“You may enter your barracks,” the officer said, as the last tool was removed.  “Thank you for your services to the glorious Chinese Revolution.”

Stephanie was almost sure that the officer was being sarcastic; he certainly seemed to know what buttons to push to keep reminding the POWs of their helplessness in the face of Chinese guns and determination.  She wouldn’t have appointed an officer who knew nothing about westerners to the camp, had she been in charge; she would have appointed someone who knew English and the other western languages, for starters.  She had communicated her suspicions to Rawlings; the black American had pointed out dryly that the Chinese had only made their impossible task slightly more impossible than it had been before they had known, or suspected, that their gaoler knew them well.

One guard removed the shackles around her legs as she paused in the middle of the cage that allowed the guards to free the prisoners, one by one.  It was one of the good guards; he didn’t attempt to do anything to her, but just pushed her though the gate as soon as he had removed her shackles, directly towards the barracks.  Prisoners were allowed the right to walk outside the barracks, as long as they didn’t try anything stupid like climbing the fence, but she walked directly inside the barracks.  In a sick sense, it was almost like home.

“Welcome home, love,” one of the male prisoners said.  Stephanie gave him the finger and he laughed.  “Shall I put the kettle on?”

Stephanie nodded.  The only luxury the prisoners were given was a large kettle and a supply of tealeaves, although there was no milk.  Some of the Americans had asked for coffee, but the Chinese had refused; tea alone would have to suffice.  The barracks had been improved, slightly, in the weeks that they had spent there; there was now a space for some private chat and some private relations.  A handful of romances had sprung up among the prisoners, something that she knew gave Rawlings a great deal of worry; there was nothing like a serious imbalance between women and men to bring out the troublemaker in every man.

“Stephanie,” Rawlings said, as she took her cup of tea gratefully.  The black American looked worse than ever; the Chinese had refused him the medical care he would need to save his damaged eye, let alone give him a chance to rest properly.  If it hadn’t been for the paperwork that they had insisted that the barracks head did, Rawlings would have been dead by now.  “How are you?”

His voice had slurred a little, Stephanie noted, as she sat down next to him.  His mouth looked as if he had been chewing his own flesh; there were still hints of bleeding from an encounter with a Chinese rifle butt.  He had managed to speak almost perfectly before, but now she was starting to worry about him.  Rawlings was also the leader of the escape committee…and the only other person in the camp who knew that she spoke Mandarin.

“Bad,” she said.  She smiled slightly.  “If they bothered to give me proper food, I might even lose some weight, but as it is…”

She tapped her chest, noticing that Rawlings didn’t even look at the shape of her breasts, clearly outlined by the form-fitting Chinese prisoner’s uniform.  It was bright orange and a fashion designer’s nightmare; it would be easy to see in the open and very hard for one person to get off on her own.  She wouldn’t have cared to walk naked through the night, even if she had been able to tolerate the cold; there had been terrible rumours about what might happen to Chinese women who fell into the hands of the locals.

“Very funny,” Rawlings said, almost sickly.  His condition was clearly worsening.  “Did you learn anything useful?”

“Nothing,” Stephanie said grimly.  Half of the barracks believed that they were fucking in their solitude; it gave them a chance to exchange information without having to explain where they got it.  “Nothing, but some interesting details on how hard the fucking rocks are here.”

Rawlings nodded.  Some of the Chinese guards had been astonished to see him, when they had first set eyes upon him; Stephanie had told him, later, that they had never seen a black man before.  The guards who were more cosmopolitan thought of how much work they could get out of someone Rawlings’ size, or at least someone healthy Rawlings size.  

She set a hand on his shoulder.  “Anything from you?”

“I have more fucking forms for you all to fill in,” Rawlings snapped.  Halfway through, his voice became a moan.  “The Chinese…don’t seem to care that they had ample opportunity to read everything about us from our dogtags, or that one of the leftist bastards in the States will have given them everything they could have possibly wanted on us, but…”

His voice broke off.  Stephanie wanted to comfort him, but knew that there was nothing that she could do; the camp medic – an American woman who had served on one of the carriers that had been sunk – had examined him with the limited equipment she had and pronounced his condition to be very grim.  Without the proper tools, Rawlings would be lucky not to lose both of his eyes, if not his life.  If he died…

“It’s all right,” she said, trying hard to be strong.  It was hard; she had spoken to enough of the prisoners to know that they had all gone through hell before being dumped in the prison camp.  They were all going to die here, she was sure; they had no hope of rescue, or even of escape.  How could they remain here, knowing that they would die?  “You don’t have to worry about everything…”

Rawlings tried to smile.  “I have to worry, sweetheart,” he said.  “What happens when the Chinese decide that we are no longer worth keeping around?”

Stephanie shrugged.  She had never been fat, or even gone through a podgy stage in her life, but she had always tried to keep good care of herself.  The Canadian Armed Forces had encouraged her to learn health details, even as they had been oddly reluctant to put her though escape and evasion courses and hand-to-hand fighting training, and she had benefited…as had a string of boyfriends.  Her body now was weaker than it had ever been…and she wouldn’t have fitted her old civilian clothes.  By her offhand calculations, she would be dead within a few months, unless rations improved…and there was no sign that the Chinese even cared enough to worry about such details.  

“I think that we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” she said, as a whistle blew through the camp.  The Chinese used whistles to announce mealtimes; prisoners who didn’t come to the table to be served were forced to go without, unless they were in the small hospital.  They wouldn’t let Rawlings go into medical care…and even if they did, there was very little that they could do for him.  The doctor had been very blunt about that.  “Coming?”

Rawlings shook his head slowly.  Unwilling to see him suffering any further, Stephanie pulled at him until he staggered to his feet, half-carrying him towards the door of the barracks and out into the cold air.  The temperature in the camp and the surrounding areas fluctuated alarmingly, something that a NBC specialist who had been dumped in the camps believed was caused by the nuclear weapons that had gone off, five years ago.  The Chinese cooked the food, such as it was, themselves and then passed it through a gap in the fence, working hard to ensure that there would be no chance at all of using it for an escape, however impossible.  They weren’t very good cooks either; the food they supplied wouldn’t have sufficed at a British boarding school.

“Bracelet,” the Chinese guard snapped, as they half-walked, half-staggered, up to the gap in the fence.  A second prisoner came up behind them and helped to support Rawlings as Stephanie held up her bracelet to the scanner, confirming that she was indeed who she claimed to be.  The Chinese guards never let anyone come back for a second helping.  Mr Bumble would have been proud of them.  “Prisoner CAN0001, Lieutenant Stephanie Tsuji, confirmed.”

He didn’t bat an eyelid at Rawlings condition.  “Prisoner USA0342, Captain Jay Rawlings, Barracks Head, Confirmed,” he said, as Stephanie held up Rawlings hand to the scanner.  It bleeped once in confirmation and the guard nodded to the cook, who passed Stephanie both plates, loaded with something that was almost, but not quite, unlike sausages and mash.  The Chinese Commandant had a strange sense of humour; they were in the middle of a Muslim region, and they were being fed pork, among other things.  “You may leave.”

Rawlings seemed to perk up a little when they sat down at the table to eat.  The food was never very good, but hunger drove them all to eat as much as they could, even the two Jews and one Muslim in the group.  Another Jew had refused to touch the pork and had starved to death in the first week; they had buried him, knowing that his fate could happen to all of them.  The camp was a place where all of them were equal…and the Chinese cared nothing for such details as religion.  It almost made the famed Gitmo looked nice and cosy…

Some of the prisoners had managed to talk the guards into doing some minor favours for them.  One female sailor had apparently traded her body to a guard, in exchange for some cards and several Chess boards; the guards had thrown in several other games, some of them Chinese and almost impossible for anyone, but Stephanie to use.  She had risked exposure by translating the rules, but Rawlings had agreed that they had no choice, but to give the prisoners something else to do before resentments and sexual jealously began to take their toll.  The barracks had their own Chess tournament going; Stephanie had thought she was a good player, before meeting some of the American and European players in the camp.  It also provided a cover for a meeting of the escape committee.

“I searched the barracks again,” one of the German officers said.  He had been on loan to a French destroyer before the Battle of Taiwan and had never been properly processed by the Chinese.  He was the only prisoner with any real experience with surveillance devices, or intelligence work, both of which might be used by the Chinese to keep an eye on what their prisoners were doing.  “I found nothing at all.”

“Good,” Rawlings said, and broke off into a hacking cough.  “Has anyone learned anything useful?”

“Only that there is more aircraft flying around these days,” a young midshipman from Britain said.  “There seem to be many more, all heading towards the north.”

“Must be another camp up there,” Rawlings said.  They shared a moment of gloom.  “Anyone heard anything useful from the guards?”

“They never speak in English, Guv,” a more senior British officer said.  “You know that.”

Stephanie said nothing.

There was nothing to say.

Afterwards, the meeting broke up inconclusively, as always.  They had some people who had been on the dreaded escape and evasion courses in the UK, or America, but none of them had any really good ideas for actually getting out of the trap.  The Chinese seemed to have them in a very neat prison and there seemed to be no easy way out, even a tunnel would be difficult.  The Chinese had thoughtfully based the barracks on concrete.  Stephanie held Rawlings hand as she helped him back to his bunk, grateful for once that the Chinese had given the barracks head a bigger bunk.  They had probably meant to isolate Rawlings from the remainder of the prisoners, but in that one case it had backfired; everyone could see that Rawlings needed the extra space.

“Stephanie, why?”

Stephanie blinked.  “Why what?”

“Why are you trying to keep me alive?”  Rawlings asked, his breath coming harshly through his damaged mouth.  “Why won’t you let me die?”

“Because we need you,” Stephanie said, after a moment.  She kissed the top of his head and was shocked by the response – or, more accurately, the lack of it.  “We all need you to get us through this.”

Rawlings seemed to smile.  “When we get out of here, I’m going to take you to the finest hotel and sleep for a week,” he said.  “When we get out…”

He leaned back, asleep.  Stephanie kissed his cheek and silently bid him goodnight.  The Chinese would wake them up in only a few hours and…

Despite herself, she started to cry.  It was hopeless.

Chapter Forty-Four: Slow Death Row, Take Two

Kazakhstan/Sinkiang, Central Asia

“All right,” Dubois admitted, after a long burst of invective cursing the British, Italians and Germans for insisting that France join the cooperative European weapons program, “it is a pretty good aircraft.”

Eugene Lockwood concealed a smile.  The European-designed heavy transport aircraft might have been officially called ‘Eurotransport One,’ but most of its pilots called it the Brute.  It had been a cooperative endeavour, designed to provide a capability to transport a large number of infantry to targets anywhere around the world…and naturally had been heavily over-designed by the designers.  It might not have quite the survival rating of a Warthog, but it was tough and there were six of them in the flight.  There were no escorts, however; Dubois hadn’t been able to figure out a way of getting escorting aircraft without tipping off either the Russians or the Chinese.

The two days spent in transit had been nightmarish, bringing home to him the scale of what they were about to do.  They had travelled thousands of miles, from France to Turkey, and then overflown parts of Russia, heading eastwards towards Kazakhstan.  He had been nervous about the dangers of running into units of the Russian Air Force, but many of the Russian aircraft seemed to have been pulled out of the sector and the handful that remained didn’t attempt to challenge the aircraft.  Dubois had spread money around like water, just like a drugs smuggler, to prevent anyone noticing that they were on their way.  The border guards had been easy to bribe; the spit and polish of the Russian regiments fighting their way through Europe was lacking in the units that were garrisoning the remains of Chechnya and the formerly independent states in the region.  Russia ruled now…and Russia didn’t pay its people enough to make them care.

Dubois had relaxed when they had entered Kazakhstan’s airspace.  The Russians, he had warned, wouldn’t think twice about violating their neighbour’s airspace if they believed that it was important, but they would hesitate before sending in ground troops.  Far too many of the Russians remembered Afghanistan, now trying to hold itself together in the face of implacable hostility from the Pact, and would be reluctant to risk a second debacle in a Muslim country.   Even so, Dubois had spent almost a billion dollars worth of Uncle Sam’s money, just to ensure safe passage.

“We have to bribe them all,” he had explained.  Lockwood hadn’t argued.  “Those who don’t take our money will be overthrown, but those who aren’t offered any money will have every incentive to make life harder for their suddenly more powerful rivals.  If we don’t spread our money around evenly, we will certainly have problems with one group or another.”

Lockwood’s mental conception of Kazakhstan had been of mountains and dirty villages, but he had been surprised by the sheer amount of air traffic and…signs of western civilisation that were floating around.  Dubois, in a rare unguarded moment, had commented on the drug lords, fundamentalists and worse who dominated the region…and could bring in as many luxuries as they liked.  Kazakhstan had a mobile phone network and even a few hundred civilian aircraft, even while the central government struggled to find two cents to rub together.  In short, Kazakhstan was heading towards a civil war…and the Russians were actively stirring the pot.

“The Russians are terrified of a resurgence in fundamentalism here,” Dubois said, as the flight of aircraft headed down towards an airfield.  It had been built by the Russians as a Red Air Force base, years ago; it had been one of the locations where the ill-fated invasion of Afghanistan had been launched.  The base had been used by the USAF for a time – it had been one of the reasons Dubois had selected it – before America had left the region and the warlords had taken it over.  “There are already signs of a new grassroots Islamic movement spreading and they’re worried that it might become another Taliban.”

He snorted.  “Fools,” he said, waving down towards the ground.  “The common people below are looking for an escape from violence and the warlords, and they place their fate in the hands of a bunch of barbarians who think that stoning women to death for not hiding their faces is good behaviour.  If the fundamentalists manage to take the capital, the bloodletting will be terrible.”

Lockwood blinked.  “Are the fundamentalists on our side?”

“I bribed them enough,” Lockwood said.  “You Americans never understand this, but for many of the preachers down below, it’s a living.  They get a share of the loot, in exchange for blessing the conquests in the name of Allah or Mammon; they send thousands of young men to their deaths.  A lot of the people down there would execute a real believer on sight, just to prevent him from spoiling their game.”

Lockwood glanced down the aircraft, noticing the tired faces of the Airborne soldiers as they tried to sleep in the aircraft.  The flight had been hard on all of them, but there would be a chance to grab some proper sleep on the airfield.  Tomorrow, they would be launching the first major Airborne raid of the Third World War.  

“I see,” he said.  The aircraft landed with a bump.  “What now?”

Two hours later, they were gathered around a chart table in the airfield’s large, but cold operations room.  He had been amused to see the signs of American presence, from Coke machines to even an old rifle from the Afghan War, littering the base; the Coke, he had been assured by one of the base’s operators, was still drinkable.  The operators themselves were neutral in the endless struggle for control of the country; they controlled the airfield because anyone else would be a target for one warlord or another.  They served all comers equally and, in exchange, were left in peace.

“We got lucky enough to have a recon team on the ground,” Dubois said, his face mischievous.  The recon team was actually a small convoy of smugglers, heading into China, who had been paid additional cash to have a look at a possible landing zone.  “As you can see, the Chinese have practically abandoned this small airfield here, despite the fact that numerous drug smugglers use it regularly.”  He tapped the map to make his point clear.  “We are going to land the main body of the force here, and then march across country to the camp, following this road here.”

Lockwood stared at him.  It seemed too good to be true.  “Why the hell are they so lax?”

“They don’t care,” Mary said.  She was one of Dubois’s commandos; an Englishwoman despite Dubois’s professed hatred of the English…and someone very dangerous.  Lockwood had known a female Marine sniper who had been living proof of the concept of the female being more dangerous than the male, but Mary seemed even more dangerous.  At a very deep, fundamental level, she made him nervous.  “They don’t care if the people here buy drugs or not; all they care about is preventing an influx of weapons.”

“Which is something that most drug lords won’t dare do,” Dubois added.  “That’s the one thing that might get the Chinese interested in setting up a stronger security fence in the region.  They care a lot about the airspace over Taiwan, or Vietnam, or even the Russian border, but up here?  What could threaten them here?”

Lockwood grinned.  “Us?”

“Unless you have a mad plan to march to Beijing, then you should understand that that is not so much of a problem for them,” Dubois said.  “Even if we had ten thousand men here, we would hardly be a serious threat to the Chinese leadership, thousands of miles away in Beijing.  That garrison down there” – he tapped the map again – “is the only major problem…and no amount of bribes will keep them from bothering us once the shooting starts.  Your weapon is ready?”

“Yes,” Lockwood said.  “The techs have promised me that it should work perfectly.”

“And we all know how good the techs are,” Dubois agreed dryly.  There was a hint of real sarcasm in his voice, a droll reminder that high technology didn’t win wars on its own.  “Your President really must consider this a serious problem for him to authorise its use here.”

“Yes,” Lockwood said slowly.  He had heard rumours that several high officials had resigned in protest over the decision.  “He does.”

Dubois returned to the map and completed the instructions to the team.  Seven members of Dubois’s group would remain behind, to ensure that there was some early warning if something changed enough to make performing the mission risky.  The others would have a few hours to rest before boarding the aircraft again and heading eastwards into China, where they would do or die, or, in at least a few cases, do and die.  Lockwood had been a soldier ever since his teens, he knew the risks and the dangers and the cold knowledge that he could die out here, so far from home.  All four hundred of his men were volunteers, they all knew the risks, but Lockwood was their leader.  He was the one who would blame himself, whatever the official enquiry said, if the mission failed.

He left the command room silently, slipping along vast cold Russian corridors into a massive hanger.  It had once held Bear bombers; now, most of his men were packed into the hanger, trying to catch some sleep.  Not even Dubois had been able to say if the Pact had the airfield under observation from orbit or not; there was a fair chance that the Russians might notice the sudden arrival of a large force of professional-looking infantry, even if they wore only basic uniforms.  One school of thought had argued that the unit should go in without proper uniforms, but then the Chinese would be within their rights to shoot them all if they were captured.  The men were trying hard to sleep; Lockwood prayed that they would get the sleep they needed before all hell broke loose.

He accepted a nod from one of the Kazakh guards as he stepped out into the cold air surrounding the airfield.  The airfield itself was massive, larger than a USAF base by far, large enough to hold an entire armoured division.  The guards eyed him warily; they would have seen American soldiers from the Afghan War and some of the later battles, and perhaps they would fear.  There were few truly effective military units in Central Asia, something that perhaps explained the Chinese reluctance to build up a proper air defence network in the west.  Many of the locals were tribesmen, built around a tribal structure; engaging a vastly superior force was anthemia to them.

An hour passed as he stood there, trying to think and trying to gather himself for the coming fight.  Several aircraft passed nearby – he could see them in the sky – including one Russian-built fighter that was old enough to have served in the Cold War.  Dubois had said that there was a great deal of military equipment scattered around the region; some of the warlords even had tanks, or other heavy weapons.  There had even been persistent rumours that a couple of warlords had nukes, although that had never been proven, or even triggered off warnings.

“Eugene,” Dubois said from behind him.  Lockwood turned and lifted an eyebrow; gone was the beret and cigarette half-dropping from Dubois’s mouth, replaced by a French infantry outfit and one American-made rifle, slung over his shoulder.  “It’s time to go.”

Lockwood glanced down at his watch with surprise.  It really was that time.  “I'm coming,” he said, as one of the aircraft started to rev its engines.  The noise level started to rise rapidly.  “What have you told the Chinese border guards?”

“That we’re a perfectly respectable passenger flight from Kazakhstan to Beijing, nudge nudge, wink wink,” Dubois said.  “They took their bribes in European money, which occurs a lot around here, and then they cleared us to fly over to our destination, perhaps making a few unscheduled stop-over pauses on the way.  Once we land, they won’t suspect a thing until it is almost too late.”

The soldiers were filing into the aircraft now…and the die was cast.  The mission could have been aborted at any time, but now there was no longer any choice; it was do or die time.  The Airborne soldiers looked ready to kill…and Lockwood would have preferred no others behind him on the crazy mission.  If anyone could pull it off, it was the force he commanded, the men he had led before and – God willing – would lead again.  The other aircraft would hang back, waiting for their time to fly into the camp’s airfield directly, once his men had secured the prisoners.

“We all know what we’re here for,” he said, once the aircraft had taken off and was heading east into China.  “Our mission is to rescue the prisoners being held in the POW camp that we are heading towards at an awesome speed.  We are going to return each and every one of those POWs to America, to their countries, and we are going to do it today.  We must not fail! We will not fail!”

He paused.  “What deeds we do today will be remembered as long as America exists,” he continued, allowing his voice to rise.  “As long as one American draws breath, he or she will remember us…and each of us will be able to say, when the time comes to discuss great deeds of daring in the war, that he was there!  I expect that each and every one of you, when the time comes, will do his or her duty!  We know what we’re doing, we know we can do it, we know we’re the best of the best of the best…and we are going to do it.”

The men cheered.  A Sergeant spoke from his position along one of the aircraft’s bulkheads.  “Now, I'm afraid there is going to be a certain amount of violence,” he said, pushing his voice into an effeminate moan, “but at least we know that it’s all in a good cause, don’t we?”

Lockwood laughed, recognising the quote.  “And gentlemen in London still abed will think themselves accursed they were not here, and hold their manhoods cheap, while others speak, of those who fought with us this day, Independence Day!”

Dubois was laughing when Lockwood came into the front compartment.  “You do realise that you buggered up the entire set of lines?”

“Fuck you,” Lockwood said, without heat.  “Everyone needs something to help them relax.”

“I never take drugs, or drink,” Dubois said.  Lockwood recognised that Dubois was also trying to relax.  “When it comes to wine, women, and song, I tend to stick with the women after being thrown out of bars for singing.”

Time passed, broken only by a handful of radio calls from various bribed Chinese controllers, who accepted Dubois’s codes without comment.  The codes were genuine, Dubois assured him, but there was always the chance that an unbribed guard might be feeling competent or merely bloody-minded at the worst possible moment.  When the time came to fly low, to escape the radars and change course, Lockwood found himself almost hyperventilating, just before the airfield came into view.

“The other aircraft will wait for us here,” Dubois said, as they landed.  There was no one at all on the airfield; it had been deserted long enough for it to seem almost derelict.  It might well have been built during the Sino-Japanese War; it certainly seemed old enough, even though there were hints that someone had used it a lot more recently.  “Everyone out.”

Darkness was falling as they made their way out of the airfield, relaying on their GPS systems to lead them directly to the camp.  One of his soldiers had launched a stealth drone as soon as they had landed, the drone was now floating invisibly towards the camp, utterly undetectable by anything the Chinese might have had at the camp.  The camp itself was winding down for the night, he saw; the prisoners were in their barracks and the Chinese guards were mainly returning to their barracks, unaware of their danger.  A large force remained outside, on patrol; the radio system was still in use.

“The bastard is making sex talk to his girlfriend,” the commtech hissed.  He had a direct link to the drone, which was picking up the Chinese signals and relaying them through undetectable microburst transmissions.  “He’s fucking with our mission just to tell his girlfriend that he can’t wait to be back in her bed, fucking her.”

Lockwood shrugged as the camp came into view.  Cloaked as they were in garments that made them almost invisible in the gloom, there was no real risk of detection until they got much closer, but the Chinese might well have a few surprises up their sleeves.  He checked his terminal, sending orders to the special weapon waiting patiently for use, and then subvocalised a command to his people.

“Spread out and take your positions,” he ordered.  “Move quickly now.”

They had only had a short time to prepare for the mission, but the team spread out as perfectly as if it were a drill, rather than the real thing.  Lockwood noticed Dubois’s expression of grim eagerness for the coming fight and smiled; his own men would be just as aggressive…and determined to move in for the kill.  The Chinese wouldn’t know what had hit them.

“The bastard’s come and gone,” the commtech subvocalised.  “They’ve finished talking; man, what a voice that woman had.  She would be real good with the lights turned out.”

“Shut up,” Lockwood subvocalised back.  He paused, checking everyone’s positions.  The time had come to do or die.  He tapped one final command into his terminal and hefted his assault rifle.  “Fire!”

Chapter Forty-Five: Slow Death Row, Take Three

Sinkiang, North China

The weapon floated high over the battlefield, undirected, utterly undetectable by any of the systems that the Chinese space warriors below might bring to bear on it, assuming that they suspected its presence.  It was – technically – an illegal weapon, but the rise in Pact space capabilities had sent such niceties by the board; both sides had devastated the other side’s satellites and orbital platforms.  Only the civilian space platforms had been left alone…and only then because both sides had reluctantly agreed to place observers on the platforms to confirm that they were not being used for military purposes.

A single microburst touched the weapon.

Instantly, its computers began to work, logging the security codes that authorised it to attack and checking them against its database for any inaccurate details that would invalidate the orders.  The orders were confirmed and the weapon began to reorient itself, locking on to its target, a set of GPS coordinates in the middle of nowhere.  The machine wasn’t a semi-intelligence cruise missile, or a remote drone; it didn’t have the intelligence to know or care as to the identity of its target.  All that mattered was that the weapon’s masters had ordered the target destroyed.  It went through the final checks and then…

The weapon fell out of orbit.  Gravity took a hand and pulled it faster and faster as it fell down towards the planet below.  The stealth coating burned away rapidly as the weapon fell, but by then it was far too late for any warning, even if the defenders recognised that they were under attack.  It was possible, as unknowing radar stations in the west had done, to write it off as a fireball…until it was too late.  The weapon, uncaring about such details as it cared nothing for its final fate, didn’t care; it had its mission and it would complete its task to its own satisfaction.

The target rose up in front of it, a single GPS coordinate.  The weapon, already moving faster than anything other than a scramjet cruise missile, locked on and entered its terminal attack phase.  It slammed into the massive Chinese barracks at many times the speed of sound, utterly smashing the barracks in the first seconds of impact.  There was no warhead on the weapon; the simple massive force of its flight through the atmosphere was all the punch it needed…to shatter a Chinese garrison and leave the survivors shell-shocked and utterly unable to interfere with the fighting going on to the north.  The shockwave of the impact had broken them…

High overhead, a reconnaissance satellite logged the successful strike, forwarding the details to the controllers somewhere in America.  Technicians and advisors congratulated each other on the success, knowing now that they would get the budget to build more and more of the weapons.  It was only a pity, the Head of Department reflected later, that they couldn’t do a proper post-impact assessment.

***
Lieutenant Sheng kicked a rock out of the way with more than necessary force as the patrol marched on its long patrol route around the camp.  Sheng, like many of the other officers and men stationed at the camp, believed that the entire patrolling schedule was a waste of time.  Sheng had hoped to be assigned to a cushy post guarding some of the buildings in Beijing or Hong Kong, but instead he and his entire unit had been scooped up and dumped in the middle of nowhere, guarding worthless western prisoners.  It was enough, he was sure, to drive a man to drink, but alcohol was forbidden on the camp.

He scowled as the sun set and the darkness rose up around them.  He had been told tales about the people who lived in the region, people who would happily cut his throat if they caught him alone; the Party had said a great deal about the Muslims who inhabited the region.  Sheng believed almost everything the Party said, particularly after viewing some of the photographs of bodies found in North China, horribly mutilated.  It made sense, he had been assured, to have a regiment from the real China guarding the prisoners; the locals would have either freed them or massacred them.  Even so, there were few rewards for guarding the camp; it wasn’t as if they had free access to the female prisoners, after all.  A handful of female prisoners would put out for the guards, but only a handful…and only in return for gifts or games.

Sheng had never been lucky with one.  Instead, he had been assigned to patrolling the perimeter, as if a force of locals would appear at any moment, carving knives ready for cannibalism, where prisoners and guards alike would go into the stew pot.  Sheng had heard that parts of China had already had outbreaks of cannibalism…and he had no trouble at all in believing that the natives of North China might do the same.  They were barbarians, after all…

What was that?  Sheng saw something moving, right out of the corner of his eye.  It could have been a local – there were some caravans that had tried to pass though the camp, apparently under the impression that they had the right to roam everywhere – and his orders were strict.  He had to prevent any locals from coming near the camp.  His hand fell to the radio at his belt, then he thought better of it; it might be a local caravan with women and men willing to bribe the guards in exchange for a peaceful escape.  He slipped closer to the shadow and…

Something bit him on the neck.  His first thought was that he had been bitten by an insect…and then he realised that a tiny dart had been fired at him from the shadow.  His body went numb and his legs gave under him, sending him falling to the ground; he tried to scream and instead nothing came out of his mouth.  His last clear view, before his eyesight failed, was that of the shadow taking on shape and form; a soldier wearing a battledress of some description.  There was a wave of fire…and then only darkness.

***
The Tactical Airborne Missile had been designed as a multiple-purpose weapon, intended to limit the amount of equipment that the soldiers would have had to carry.  With a simple change of warheads, the rockets switched from being antitank weapons to becoming antipersonnel weapons, or even antiaircraft weapons, although with a very limited range.  The antipersonnel warhead blasted out enough burning fuel, hot enough to set wood on fire in moments, to kill or seriously wound anyone unlucky enough to be caught within the detonation radius of the missile.

The Chinese guards in each of the watchtowers had only moments to realise that they were under attack before the missiles struck the watchtowers and detonated.  A wave of heat vaporised the guards, even as the metal supports melted and anything even remotely flammable caught fire.  Ammunition started to detonate, adding to the sheer confusion of the encounter; the handful of guards on the ground threw themselves away from the heat before it could scorch them.

A final missile struck the radio mast.  As a security precaution, the camp had only one dedicated radio set…and one landline, leading towards the base that had already been hit from orbit.  Just in case, a single Airborne soldier had been detailed to cut the line as soon as the fireworks began, cutting the camp off from any contact with the outside world.  A minute after the shooting had begun, the camp was already in a seriously dangerous situation…and the worst was yet to come.

***
The Chinese didn’t believe in electric lights for the barracks, although they were clearly willing to use them as searchlights and to illuminate their own barracks, which were almost as bad as the ones that housed the prisoners.  Lieutenant Stephanie Tsuji had been dreaming of home when the first explosion had cast a fiery light burning through the windows…and shook many of them out of bed.  The wave of shooting brought the remainder of the prisoners to their senses, everyone aware that something had happened to bring an armed force down on the camp.

A second explosion shook the camp.  “Everyone get down on the ground,” Rawlings shouted.  Somehow, the prospect of rescue had brought him back to life.  “Get down on the fucking ground, now!”

Stephanie hit the ground and found herself lying on top of an American, who was rubbing his head.  “Not now, dear,” he said.  “I’ve got a headache.”

Stephanie laughed as a hail of bullets rattled up against the side of the barracks.  For the first time, she blessed the Chinese who had built the barracks; it was clearly strong enough to resist the bullets that were bouncing off the walls.  One bullet smashed a window and impacted on the other side of the room, narrowly missing an Australian who examined the bullet thoughtfully.

“American,” he said simply.  Stephanie joined in the cheers.  There was a rescue force out there, someone knew they were there…and that someone was risking their lives by firing heavy weapons around the camp.  Despite herself, she crawled into a ball, falling off the American who smiled thinly at her.  His head was bruised by the impact and she wondered just how many of them would survive their rescuers, let alone the rescue.

She closed her eyes as the shooting grew louder.  There was no way to escape the trap; it occurred to her for the first time that the Chinese might have mined the barracks to prevent her and her fellow prisoners from leaving.  She prayed silently under her breath, hoping and wishing that the Chinese had overlooked that, wondering if she would live to see the dawn.

Another burst of fire splattered against the barrack walls.  One way or another, she hoped that it wouldn’t be long before something happened to end the fighting, or else she would die of heart failure…

***
Lockwood led the attack in person; there were just too many things that could go badly wrong and would need spilt-second decisions to handle them.  The Chinese had based their men in a set of barracks that were not only separate from the prisoner barracks, but had constructed them in such a manner as to make them very difficult to attack.  Had he had a B52 with JDAM weapons, he would have ordered it to take out the Chinese defences, but he was on his own, with only the resources of his team.

The Chinese buildings looked like something out of MASK; an ordinary-looking building, surrounded by smoke and bursts of fire as gunners unloaded their weapons in the direction of the American soldiers.  Airborne snipers had picked off the handful of Chinese who had been foolish enough to expose themselves to his men, but many more Chinese remained trapped in the barracks, trying to defend themselves in an impossible position.

Lockwood scowled.  The position wasn’t impossible, not really; they had a very clear time limit on their mission.  There was no way to be certain what had happened at the Chinese base that had been struck from orbit, but the Chinese would have to know that something was happening…and they would be trying to respond to it.  That gave him only a few hours, at most, before the Chinese were swarming all over him…and there wasn’t time to worry about a group of Chinese soldiers in the guard barracks.

An explosion blossomed on the roof of one of the barracks; he allowed himself a moment of hope before realising that the explosion hadn’t really damaged more than a few chips.  They lacked any really heavy weapons, only carrying small mortars and rocket intended for antitank work with them, and neither was particularly suited for removing the bloody Chinese position right in his sights.  There were possibilities, but none of them were really likely to work.

He ground his teeth together.  “Han, call them,” he ordered.  “Offer them the standard deal.”

Han, a Chinese-American soldier, nodded.  “ATTENTION,” he bellowed through a megaphone, in Mandarin.  “IF YOU SURRENDER NOW, YOU WILL NOT BE HARMED AND YOU WILL BE RETURNED UNHARMED TO CHINA AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.”

There was a pause.  Not in the firing, however, the Chinese soldiers were still fighting with the sheer desperation of rats in a trap.  They had to know that their position was terrifyingly bad…and yet, they were fighting with a tenacity that he could only admire.  They didn’t have a hope of getting out without his permission, and yet, if they held out long enough, they would have defeated him without him even getting a look at the prisoners he had come so far to rescue.

“Shaped charges,” Sergeant Pickering said.  The burly Sergeant pulled out a bag of explosives.  “Get close to the barracks and blow this little lot; that’ll get them out like rats in an exploding trap.”

Lockwood nodded.  There seemed to be no other option.  The Chinese couldn’t get out without being mowed down by his people, but his people couldn’t get close to the Chinese position without being shot down, even with body armour.  Three of his people, at least, had been killed by well-aimed shots; these days, everyone was firing bullets that could get through most body armour.  Until the long-awaited mecha program finally produced something useable, the infantry was going back to being vulnerable, in a world where only training and discipline could save western soldiers from the enemies of freedom.

“I think there’s no choice,” he said.  The Sergeant’s courage shamed him, even though in his younger days he would have taken on the mission as well; the commander couldn’t expose himself to too much risk.  If the Chinese killed them all, then he became as expendable as a common soldier, but until then, he was too vital to risk.  “One moment.”

He subvocalised orders into his mouthpiece, checking the other teams out.  Dubois seemed to have vanished, but the other teams had completed their own tasks, aided by the fact that the Chinese didn’t seem to have considered the airfield vital enough to guard.  It was undefendable anyway, as five of his men proved; they had snatched the air traffic controller and three of his men before they had had a chance to try to raise the alarm.  The others had swept through the locations of possible Chinese holdouts and either cleared them or killed the handful of survivors they had found.  Observers noted that the prisoners seemed to have remained in their barracks; Lockwood felt nothing more than pure relief.

“Go,” he muttered.  “Move; now – gunners, fire!”

The gunners opened fire, raking across the Chinese position with machine guns, their bullets attempting to force the Chinese to keep their heads down.  Someone in the Chinese side had kept his head, Lockwood had realised; perhaps he would lose it in the round of fighting that was about to break out.  The Chinese fired back as Sergeant Pickering sneaked around the camp, trying to get into a Chinese blindspot…and then there was a thunderous explosion.  It took Lockwood a moment to realise what had happened; Sergeant Pickering had somehow stood on a mine…and the explosion had detonated his shaped charges as well.

“Fuck,” he breathed.  Was there any way of getting into the Chinese position?  Rushing the doors would be impossible; the Chinese would gun down most of his men with ease.  Their smaller weapons wouldn’t be any use against the Chinese, even if they managed to get a grenade through one of the slats.  He would have bet good money that the Chinese had compartmentalised their barracks to prevent anyone from doing just that.  “Now what?”

Just for a moment, he was completely at a loss, and then he heard the rumble.

“Don’t panic, Yankee,” a French-accented voice said.  The rumble was so loud that it took him a moment to place the voice.  “Look what I’ve found.”

Lockwood felt his mouth fall open.  A moment later, he started to laugh.  The tank was old enough to have served in the Second World War – the historian inside him wondered if it was a genuine T-45 – but it was clearly fully functional and configured for suppressing riots.  The tank bristled with machine guns and grenade launchers, but it was definitely armed with one large gun.

“The bastards must have expected a tank raid,” Dubois shouted, over the roar of the tank’s engines.  “Permission to blow this Popsicle stand, sir?”

“Granted,” Lockwood said.  He decided to ask where Dubois had found the tank later.  He had saved all of their butts.  “Blow them to hell.”

The tank fired a single antitank round into the Chinese building.  The entire wall of the building exploded inwards, revealing Chinese infantrymen, attempting to return fire and save themselves from a sudden certain death.  The tank fired again and then poured machine gun fire onto the Chinese position…and resistance came to an end.

“Thank God,” Lockwood said, and meant it.  He looked over at the shape of the prisoner barracks as the firing died away.  The barracks were still intact, but that wouldn’t last for much longer, not once the Chinese outside got their act together.  “Now, let’s get these people home.”

Chapter Forty-Six: Slow Death Row, Take Four

Sinkiang, North China

The sound of shooting slowly died away.

Stephanie had only a moment to realise that the shooting was coming to an end before two quick shots rang out, far too close to the barracks for comfort.  She whimpered as she clasped hold of an American POW and refused to let go, noticing how the flames were casting an eerie illumination over the entire scene.  There was now complete silence, broken only by the noises of hundreds of terrified people, expecting to die at any moment.  She thought that she had plumbed the depths of terror; she was wrong.

She had never been so scared in all her life.

“ALL PRISONERS,” a thunderous voice echoed through the camp, speaking English.  She realised with a sheer frisson of delight that the assault forces had won the skirmish and taken the camp.  “COME OUT SLOWLY WITH YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEADS.  WE ARE HERE TO TAKE YOU HOME!”

Stephanie stood up slowly, and followed three Americans to the door, placing her hands on her head as she stepped through…into a scene from hell.  The fence that had laughed at them for weeks was torn and broken…and some of the Chinese buildings were burning.  She could see the looming shape of a tank, silhouetted by the flames, and men with guns and body armour walking slowly towards her.  One of them was carrying a large American flag, waving it triumphantly in the air; it seemed almost to glow in the dark.  She almost tripped over the body of a camp guard as the Americans stepped closer to her, their weapons not quite covering her, but in position to swing them up the moment she posed any threat.

“I need your hand,” the American said.  It was an order, not a request; she held her cracked and bruised hand out for his inspection.  He pressed her fingers against a fingerprint reader and the machine emitted a small bleep.  “You seem to be who you claim to be.”

Stephanie blinked at him.  “I never claimed to be anyone,” she said.  “Who do you think I am?”

The American leered at her.  “I don’t know, darling, and I don’t want to find out the hard way,” he said.  “We had problems before with spies being added in to the prisoners we ‘rescued,’ so we are going to be very careful about whom we take home with us.”

He gently pushed Stephanie towards a gathering point in the centre of the camp.  “I have to wait for Jay,” Stephanie protested.  “He’s coming out now.”

The American sucked in his breath as Jaw Rawlings made his appearance, held by two burly American sailors who had been captured at sea.  Rawlings looked worse than ever, his skin an unhealthy grey, almost white.  The American bellowed for a medic, even as he checked Rawlings’ fingerprints and ensured that he was who he appeared to be.  Stephanie smiled thinly as Rawlings took her hand; the medic from the team gave him a quick check and pronounced him in need of a hospital.

“We’ll get you back in the states within a couple of days,” the medic assured him.  Rawlings looked relieved and nervous at the same time.  “Don’t worry; the damage isn’t great enough to keep you ill for the rest of your life.”

“IF I COULD HAVE YOUR ATTENTION, PLEASE,” an American voice bellowed.  The American was standing on top of the tank, looking down on the prisoners below, who were crying and trying to hug their rescuers.  “WE ARE NOT OUT OF THE WOODS YET!”

Stephanie sensed the wave of sudden fear, mixed with determination, that passed through the prisoners.  They wouldn’t go back into the camp willingly…and some of them were already picking up weapons that had been discarded by the Chinese guards when they had been shot down.  The chaos seemed to have devastated the camp, but she could see that their rescuers looked confident and determined to get them all home safely.

“We have five aircraft coming in to take you all out of here,” the American leader continued, without the megaphone.  The only noise was the crackling of the fires as they threatened to spread out of control.  No one was performing any fire fighting duties.  “We need you all to cooperate.  All injured prisoners and their escorts will go first, heading towards the airfield; once the plane lands, board it at once and take a seat.  Strap in; the ride is going to be bumpy.  Don’t argue; there isn’t time to argue, just do it.

“Anyone who hasn’t picked up a weapon, do so,” he continued.  “If we have to fight to keep the landing zone clear, then that is what we shall do.”  Stephanie bent down quickly and picked up a Chinese knock-off of a German pistol, checking the handful of bullets left in it and making a mental note to save one for herself.  “Anyone with previous ground combat experience, report to Sergeant Davis; everyone else, just hold your weapons and stand ready.”

She saw a handful of Chinese prisoners being escorted across the compound by a pair of American soldiers.  The prisoners were turning ugly as they saw their tormentors, broken by the sheer fury of the American attack; she clasped her weapon and wondered if anyone would shoot…

“Oh, and don’t shoot the prisoners,” the American said laconically.  “We need them alive.”

The medic came back with a portable stretcher and helped Rawlings to climb onto it, before two of his fellow prisoners lifted him up and started to carry him towards the airfield.  Stephanie could hear the sound of jets as the rescue aircraft came in from the west, heading towards the airfield and heading in to land.  Rawlings refused to let go of her hand as they shambled towards the plane that was landing; the medic grinned, made a comment about young love that made Stephanie blush, and then ordered her to go with them.  It seemed thousands of miles until they reached the aircraft, but they made it, just in time to get onboard.  It wouldn’t be long now.

***
“Need them alive my hairy arse,” Dubois sneered.  “We don’t need them at all, do we?”

“If we can take them out, we can use them for parading them in front of the cameras and rub the world’s nose in what was happening here,” Lockwood said absently.  There were too many other things to worry about.  “Tom?”

Captain Tom Golgotha scowled.  “We lost twenty-seven soldiers in the first attack and thirteen more thanks to that damned sharpshooter they had in their barracks,” he growled.  “Ninety-four prisoners are dead.  Thirty-nine of the lads are injured, four of them need to get out or they will die before we can get them to Turkey.”

Lockwood nodded.  “Get them on the first aircraft,” he said.  “Sandy?”

The communications technician looked up.  “Snifter systems report that a lot of Chinese military traffic has gone encrypted,” he said.  His face darkened under the flickering light of the fires as they burned through the remains of the Chinese compound.  “So far, there are no reported signals coming from the remains of the garrison that was hit from orbit, but that won’t last, sir…”

“And, of course, if they have microburst transmitters this far from the war zone, we wouldn’t detect them until it was too late,” Lockwood agreed.  “So far, are any of the satellites tracking any attempt to find out what the hell’s going on here?”

“Not yet, but it won’t be long before they put two and two together and then start thinking about their options,” Sandy said.  “Sir, what happens if we lose an aircraft?”

“We have three back at the airfield in Kazakhstan we can use if we have to use them,” Dubois injected.  “Eugene, why the fuck are we risking our lives to save a few Chinese bastards as well as our own people?”

“Back in America, there’s a school of thought that says all the Indians – sorry, the Native Americans – were flower-power nature children who lived in harmony with nature until the big bad white man came along and slaughtered them all to ensure that the hills of America were free for all,” Lockwood said.  He had studied history and knew better.  “The reality was obscured behind the dream.  Here…”

He leaned forward.  “Here, there will be people as soon as the war ends who will claim that we should never have fought it, or that we should have not killed so many people who were firing at us, or that the Chinese were really in the right.  I’m going to put that fucking day off as long as possible.”

Dubois nodded.  “I understand,” he said.  “The Media really shouldn’t be allowed a free hand, should it?”

The second aircraft came into land.  “How long are we likely to have?”

“It depends on how the Chinese react and just how much damage we did to the nearby garrison,” Lockwood said.  “If they have some vehicles and suchlike still intact, they could send a patrol over to intercept us and attempt to trap us here; if not, they would have to wait for reinforcements and send in jet fighters.  That’s the real worry; the Brutes cannot really hide from a fighter jet.”

He looked over at the aircraft on the airfield.  They were loading, slowly, with prisoners; it made his blood boil to look at some of the prisoners’ injuries and know that he was transporting back some of their tormentors, even if there was little real choice.  The prisoners had been hurt badly; he was determined that they would have their chance to return home.

“Place the charges around the remains of the barracks,” he ordered, as Sergeant Thomas appeared.  They had also liberated some of the Chinese explosives, used for breaking rock, but the Chinese hadn’t mined the camp.  The Americans would have to use a lot of effort on destroying the camp, but after seeing and photographing the interior of the barracks, Lockwood was determined that they would be destroyed.  “I want the entire place ready to be destroyed once we are on our way.”

“And not where we’re still here, as happened in Salvador,” Sergeant Thomas said.  They shared a grin; that particular mission had been badly planned and poorly executed…and they’d still pulled it off.  Training, discipline and initiative had saved them, barely, from disaster.  “I’ll get on with it at once, Captain.”

“The first aircraft is requesting permission to take off,” Sandy said.  “Sir?”

Lockwood looked over at Dubois.  “Do you think it’s safe?”

“We bribed the controllers,” Dubois said.  “The sooner we move, however, the sooner we will be out of the way if they have a sudden spurt of patriotism.”

“Understood,” Lockwood said.  “Order the first aircraft to leave at once and head back to the airfield.  If we don’t make it out, they’re to run towards Turkey as fast as they can.”

He was the only one on the team who knew the full contents of the secret arrangement with Turkey…and only one of two with the codes that would get them into Turkish airspace without hassles.  If he died, or was trapped in China, he wouldn’t be able to get them through the defence network and disaster could result.

“Yes, sir,” Sandy said.  “I’ve sent the order now.”

Lockwood watched as the first aircraft started to taxi out.

It wouldn’t be long now.

***
“See, Jay,” Stephanie said, as the aircraft started to move.  “I told you that they’d come for us.”

Rawlings tried to smile.  “My head is breaking, girl,” he said finally.  His voice was thin and reedy as his condition started to worsen.  “I can’t even think.”

“They’re talking about sedating you,” Stephanie warned.  “You have to sleep for the remainder of the flight.”

“I know how bloody far we have to go,” Rawlings tried to snap, and managed only a weak gurgle.  “I don’t want to meet my death while fast asleep and open my eyes in hell.”

Stephanie kissed him.  “You won’t open your eyes anywhere, but in a hospital bed with me by your side,” she said.  “Now, stop moaning and enjoy the ride.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking,” a French voice said.  Some of the prisoners laughed.  “Welcome onboard the flight to Kazakhstan.  Please remain strapped in all through the flight as we may experience some turbulence…and for turbulence, read enemy bastards shooting at us.  We should be able to land and give you a few moments to catch your breath in a few hours, but for the moment…”

The aircraft hurtled down the runway and lumbered into the air.  “Please enjoy your complimentary sips of water, and just remember; you could be flying British Airlines.”

He laughed.  “Bastard,” a British officer snapped.  “All the people in the world who could come rescue us and it is the Americans and the French!  Talk about strange bedfellows.”

***
The little radar station was nestled into the side of a hill, providing coverage of the eastern regions of Kazakhstan, but hardly any coverage of the Chinese interior.  The operating staff, seventeen trained Uyghurs who had gone to a proper Chinese electronic college, knew perfectly well why that was so; the Uyghurs were not trusted by the Han or Cantonese Chinese.  The Uyghurs were regarded with suspicion, just because many of them were Muslims; they responded with frequent uprisings and plenty of civil disobedience.

 The Air Traffic Controller studied the display in front of him and frowned inwardly, keeping his face carefully blank.  He owed the People’s Republic of China nothing, as far as he was concerned; his willingness to accept his place had ended the day when a guard had kicked him when he had prostrated himself in front of Allah.  It had been profitable, too; he had earned plenty of money in several secret bank accounts for every plane he had ignored, or wiped off the radar screens, and he would soon have enough to leave China once and for all.  The guards were technological ignoramuses; their primary concern was chasing the women at the nearest town – religious prejudice always took a back seat to hormones – and taking every opportunity to show their superiority over the Uyghurs.  The last time that one of the guards had done that, he had crashed a large chunk of the radar network, but had managed to blame it on one of the Uyghurs, who had promptly been shot for sabotage.

The Controller was not a fool and knew – suspected – that something was up in the east.  The bribe had been bigger than most drug lords were willing to pay, unless they bribed the guards as well, and the Controller had no sense of scruples about accepting money to hide an aircraft.  The guards, however, had received a private broadcast on their radio net – he hadn’t managed to hack it yet – and they were on tenterhooks.  They knew something…and the Controller knew that one false step could lead to an unfortunate death for him and his entire family.  His daughter had only just become a woman…and he knew that the guards had eyed her when she had come to bring him his lunch.  Her passing would be neither quick, nor easy; the thought of what they could do to her almost made him quail inside.

“Watch the screens, boy,” one of the guards sneered.  “Inform me the minute you have a contact.”

“Of course,” the Controller replied, in flawless Mandarin.  None of the Uyghur languages were permitted in any State-owned building.  His hand reached out for the volume control and had almost reached it when something appeared on the radar.  Ping!

The guard swung round.  “What is that, fool?”

The Controller cringed inwardly.  “We have a contact,” he said.  That, at least, was something the guard should be able to tell himself.  “One aircraft; heading west.”  

He looked at the computer system he had been given to operate the entire network, a bootleg version of Windows 98; there were times when he wondered if the use of the system hadn’t been a particularly cunning piece of American counter-espionage.  “It’s cleared” – it should have been; he had cleared it himself – “for transit to Kazakhstan.”

“All aircraft have been grounded,” the guard growled.  The Controller felt his blood run cold; it would be just like the air defence controllers to order all the aircraft in a given region grounded, without bothering to tell him.  Three more contacts had appeared, all heading west.  “Inform the airbase; we have the American dogs.”

The Controller, helplessly, tapped the button, sending the details of the contact on to the nearest People’s Liberation Army Air Force.  One way or another, he knew that he wouldn’t survive the week.

***
The fifth aircraft lumbered into the air and Lockwood allowed himself a moment of relief as the final transport aircraft settled down onto the runway.  His men had spent nearly an hour booby-trapping the entire camp, trying to make life difficult for whatever Chinese soldiers came to investigate in the end.  The Airborne soldiers had a nasty sense of humour and it showed; a landmine connected to the tank, a toilet seat that had been rigged to blow, a pile of bodies that had been carefully prepared to distract attention from the hidden traps…the soldiers had been very inventive indeed.

He smiled.  So far, the mission had been a great success.  What could possibly go wrong now?

There was a cough from Sandy.  “Ah. Colonel?”

“Yes?”  Lockwood said, mentally kicking himself.  Everyone knew that it was bad luck to even think that nothing could go wrong.  Something always went wrong after a person said it, or thought it.  “What’s happened?”

“I think we have a problem,” Sandy said.  The communications expert was holding a terminal that provided a direct link to the watching satellites.  “You had better take a look at this.”

Chapter Forty-Seven: Slow Death Row, Take Five

Sinkiang, North China

“Understood, control,” Captain Chung said, as he kicked his aircraft forward into supersonic flight.  “I am responding to the emergency now.”

He glared down at his HUD, but had enough common sense not to verbalise any of his discontents; you never knew who might be listening in the People’s Republic.  It had been verbalising his discontents with some elements of the training structure of the People’s Liberation Army Air Force that had gotten him reassigned to one of the bases that saw the least useful activity of any base in China.  The bases in Vietnam duelled with American aircraft, the bases near Taiwan raided Taiwan from time to time, but the airbase so far from Beijing that it didn’t even have a name was quiet.  Chung had been ordered to train the local pilots in advanced aviation techniques, but he seemed to spend most of his time noting how the locals took bribes to allow smugglers to fly clearly through their territory.

It was maddening.  An entire force of American bombers could fly right through the bribed controllers and fly over large parts of China, hitting the Chinese in the rear.  Instead of being aware of the possibility, the locals seemed to spend half of their time accepting bribes and the other half plotting rebellion against China.  None of them could be trusted; Chung had taken to flying his own aircraft to ensure that some of the authorised interception missions were actually carried out.  There were times when he half-expected to run into a stolen Shenyang J-8, like his own aircraft, in the hands of smugglers; some aircraft had indeed vanished into Kazakhstan or perhaps even to Georgia or Azerbaijan, before the Russians took the states back into the fold.  The entire region called for nothing less than a repeat of the Tibet final solution…on a massive scale.  If the natives weren’t loyal to China, let them be replaced by loyal sons of China…and let their daughters marry the loyal sons.

“Control, any sign of that back-up?”

“No, Jian-one,” the ground controller said.  He too was a native of the accused region; his incompetence would have earned him a firing squad in other parts of the PLAAF.  Instead, he was allowed to remain behind when most of the best crews were pulled out for the fighting in Indonesia or Europe.  Chung had wanted to go to Europe, but apparently he had been considered a serious political risk.  “All we have is one tanker and a limited radar aircraft.”

It was as if the fool was deliberately trying to slow him down.  “Have the radar aircraft start looking for the enemy aircraft,” he said.  The garbled report that a base had been attacked placed the mystery aircraft as somewhere above the normal run of smugglers, unless the smugglers were deliberately trying to provoke an encounter with the PLAAF.  “I want the tanker to be following me in to provide additional fuel if I require it.”

He studied his HUD again, pleased to note that he was receiving some information from the primitive AWACS.  The aircraft had been his own brainchild, a smaller passenger jet grounded by the war, which he had equipped with a cannibalised radar set.  He cursed his own lack of foresight now; had he suspected that there would be real trouble, he would have flogged the crews until they actually managed to learn how the system worked, instead of pushing buttons like the monkeys they were.  The unknown targets were rising up from the camp…and all of a sudden, he knew what he was facing, what they had to be.  Only a handful of nations had the resources to mount a mission to the heart of Central Asia…and three of them belonged to the Pact.  He wasn’t fond of the Russians, or the Indians, but he knew better than to think that either of them would attempt to free prisoners they could have bartered for, had they even cared enough to make the effort.

“And pass the warning up the chain,” he ordered.  The chain of air defence stations further to the east would have to be warned; who knew, he might even get some competent pilots to back him up.  “Tell them that the Americans are trying to recover their prisoners.”

***
Lockwood glared down at the terminal in Sandy’s hand.  “What is that?”

“That’s a Shenyang J-8, sometimes called a Jian-8,” Sandy said grimly.  “We call it the Finback, sir; it was once the best fighter in the Chinese arsenal.”

“But not any longer,” Lockwood said.  His men had boarded the plane and they were sitting ducks on the ground.  They had been walking swiftly towards the transport – the final transport – while studying the terminal.  “How long until it gets here?”

“Around ten minutes,” Sandy said.  He looked up into the sky, as if he could see the dawn already.  “Sir, what do you suggest we do?”

Lockwood looked over at Dubois.  “We can’t stay here,” he said.  He lifted his mouthpiece.  “Sergeant Taylor, set up the Air Denial Device and then get back into the aircraft.  Coming?”

Dubois snorted.  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he said.  They walked quickly towards the transport, which was already waiting to take off and flee to Kazakhstan.  Sergeant Taylor had already set up the ADD, working as quickly as he could; the nasty-looking missile launcher moved to and fro, watching for possible threats.  If the Chinese pilot flew directly over the camp, he would get a nasty surprise.  “Time to get out of here before the Chinese pilot claims our scalps for his table.”

“Everyone get fucking strapped in, now,” the pilot bellowed, as the ramp came up and they tumbled into the plane.  “Begging your pardon, sir, grab onto something, anything.”

“A pity you’re not a young stewardess,” some unknown voice said from the infantry ranks.  “I could grab you.”

“Fuck off,” the pilot shouted back.  The noise of the engine rose up sharply and the aircraft raced along the runway, climbing into the air and pushing Lockwood back against the bulkhead.  “Colonel, we have at least one enemy aircraft, closing in at supersonic speed, and an AWACS.  They’ve made us, sir.”

“One enemy aircraft,” Lockwood muttered.  He shared a glance with Dubois.  “Can we outrun it?”

“Perhaps,” the pilot answered back.  Lockwood staggered to his feet and paced into the cockpit.  The pilot looked grimly competent, but nervous; the radar showed a single ominous red icon, closing in from the east.  “That plane has to be a fuel hog and I don’t think that that tanker can keep up with it for long, even though it can probably match our speed.”

Lockwood scowled.  “Feed them some bollocks,” he ordered.  The thought made him smiled briefly.  “Tell them whatever you have to tell them to get them off our backs.”

The pilot spoke briefly in Mandarin.  “I don’t think they’re buying it,” he said.  “In fact, I’m certain of it.”

Lockwood’s eyes jumped to the radar screen.  “That’s a missile, sir,” the pilot said.  “Permission to deploy countermeasures?”

“Granted,” Lockwood said.  “Use whatever you have to get that bastard off our backs.”

“To be sure of that, we would have to shoot him down,” the pilot said.  His face creased into an evil grin.  “Perhaps…”

***
Chung watched as the missile lanced towards its target…and then fell back, defeated by a countermeasure that lured it onto a simple heat source.  He cursed the shoddiness of the missiles that he had been armed with…or perhaps it was the fault of the native armourer, who was supposed to be keeping a sharp eye on such matters.  The bastard had probably been selling off spares again.

“Control, whatever that aircraft is, it’s not a fucking medical airplane,” he said.  The radio buzzed acknowledgement.  “I need some back-up out here, damn it!”

“Regional command confirmed and is ordering you to have a look at the damaged garrison, and then the camp,” the controller ordered.  Chung cursed openly; he would have bet good money that the controller had merely made up the order, rather than risk him shooting down the American aircraft.  “They want to know what has happened to their prisoners.”

Chung bit his lip and protested.  “Sir, that means leaving the fucking aircraft to increase its lead,” he thundered.  He wanted to use stronger words to the godforsaken native.  “If I abandon it now, then…”

“Your orders have been sent,” the controller said.  Chung could hear the gloating note in the controllers voice; the Han Chinese pilot had finally stepped over a line.  Well, Chung would see to that, he determined; the report from this little incident would see to it, once and for all, that all of the non-Chinese in the region were expelled from anywhere where they could do any harm.  “Obey them.”

“Acknowledged,” Chung said.  He took a moment to shake his fist in the direction of the American – for he was now certain that it was American – aircraft as it headed westwards.  “You contact the PLAAF base and request permission for us to over-fly Kazakhstan, understood?”

“Of course,” the controller said.  “Please report back as accurately as you can as to what is happening on the ground.”

Chung muttered a word under his breath as he swung the aircraft around, heading for the ruined garrison.  It was burning brightly as he swept closer; the stock of fuel that was safely held underground had clearly been breached open and ignited by the shock of the impact.  Whatever had hit the base had been great and terrible; Chung, despite himself, was coldly impressed.  The darkness was hiding many details from his eyes, but he was sure that almost all of the people below would be dead.

He said as much.  “Control, I think that the base needs help and reinforcements,” he said, the arrogance knocked from his voice.  “Ensure that there are reinforcements on the way.”

“Understood,” the controller said.  “General Shu has been organising a relief force and will be sending it out at first light.  Check out the prison camp.”

Chung smiled.  General Shu was known for being efficient, unimaginative and generally as xenophobic as any Chinese that Chung had known.  He refused to allow any non-Han Chinese to work on his staff, and his opinion of the locals was unprintable.  He was just the sort of officer that the region needed, as far as Chung was concerned; it was time to make a major military commitment to the region and close down the smugglers, once and for all.

“I’m heading to the camp,” he said, as the aircraft flashed west.  “There are flames on the ground and…”

He had only a second of warning, but it was barely enough to escape the missile that launched itself from the ground, heading directly towards his aircraft.  The Air Denial Device was nothing less than an automated SAM; it was programmed to engage any target that strayed into its range.  Chung never knew it, but he came within microseconds of death as the missile exploded, scattering red-hot shrapnel through the air.

“Am taking ground fire,” he snapped, into his radio.  “”Enemy forces on the ground and…”

He took a closer look.  The ADD, having fired its missile, reverted to stand-by mode.  “Correction,” he said.  “It appears as if the camp is deserted.”

“Understood,” the controller said.  He appeared to be a little more subdued now that General Shu had gotten involved.  It wouldn’t save him from the blistering report that Chung intended to write.  “You have been cleared to proceed into Kazakh airspace; proceed to the tanker to refuel, and then chase down the Americans.  May Allah go with you.”

And smite me out of the sky, Chung thought coldly.  “Acknowledged,” he said aloud.  “I’m on my way.”

***
The flight towards the old airfield had taken longer this time, much to Lockwood’s concern; it wouldn’t be long before the Chinese started pursuing them in earnest.  The single jet fighter might have broken off, for a reason that frankly escaped anyone on the plane, but it wouldn’t be long before the Chinese were hot on their heels.  They would be out for blood…and there was nowhere safe, before Turkey.  As they landed, Dubois said as much, and worse.

“Once we refuel, we have no choice, but to run for Turkey,” he said grimly.  “We can make it, assuming that we don’t have to come back here, but there’s no other choice.  Once the Russians get involved, they’ll be sending their own jets after us, and then they’ll start pressuring the various Kazakh groups to act against us.  There’s no other choice.”

The other aircraft had already landed, refuelled, and started their long flight towards safety.  Lockwood ignored the curses from the soldiers – and the protest from Sergeant Taylor; “the ADD might have killed him, sir” – and insisted on everyone remaining ready to leave at a moment’s notice.  The people on the ground, he was surprised to find out, weren’t coming back with them; Dubois had something else in mind for them.

“There’s money in this godforsaken country, if you know how to make it,” he said, and wouldn’t be drawn any further.  “After all, I am getting these aircraft free, aren’t it?”

“It would seem that way,” Lockwood agreed, as the aircraft raced into the sky again.  “I don’t know what the French Government will say about that.”

“They’ll be delighted,” Dubois said.  They passed some time in silence.  “They really like having a secret army under their deniable control.”

Lockwood shrugged and returned to examining his terminal and the secure uplink to the surveillance satellite.  Events were proceeding exactly as he had hoped and he knew, now, that they would get some of their aircraft and prisoners out, unless they had to make a forced landing in Russia.  It was unlikely that the Russians would be kind enough to just point them at the border, particularly after…

“We have problems,” the pilot announced suddenly.  The radar screen was blinking up an alarm.  “That’s our friend again.”

Sergeant Taylor cursed.  “Are you sure that it’s the same aircraft?”

“I believe so,” the pilot said.  “It’s definitely the same type of aircraft, and it’s closing in on the very limits of its range…ah, the bastard has a tanker along.”  He looked up at Lockwood for a brief moment.  “This could get dashed dicey, old boy.”

“Just keep our course heading along this line,” Lockwood ordered.  “We’ll be fine, I’m sure.”

***
Chung had pushed his aircraft to the extreme limits of its performance capabilities, using the tanker to take enough fuel onboard to make the long flight possible, assuming that he wasn't intending to return home.  The point of no return had been passed long ago, although General Shu had reassured him that an entire division of helicopter-borne infantry were already on their way to move into Kazakhstan, while the Russians were attempting to get some of their allies in the region to help him if he went down somewhere in Kazakhstan.  The tanker was following him; if they were lucky, he might just be able to make it home after all.

The mystery American aircraft was heading directly for the Caspian Sea when Chung finally caught up with it.  The aircraft’s endurance was astonishing; he would have expected that it would have had to stop somewhere else along the way, although the Americans were probably working on the basis that there was no point in keeping a reserve back for the return trip.  There would be no return trip.

He selected a radar-guided missile and launched it, watching as the missile lanced away into the distance as the sun rose behind him.  The trail that the missile had left was almost beautiful, but he couldn’t wait to see what would happen when it impacted with the American aircraft.  There was a brief moment of…strange static on his own radar, and then the missile went haywire, heading away from the enemy aircraft and down towards the ground.

He swore.  This was getting frustrating.

“Control, am closing in to finish the target,” he said.  Nothing else mattered, but bringing down the enemy aircraft.  He selected his guns and roared closer, watching as the big American craft rose up in front of him.  He watched carefully for some sign of mounted weapons, but there seemed to be no sign of any, so he closed in and prepared to fire.  “Engaging…”

His threat receiver shrilled a warning; too late.  The BVRAAM missile struck his fighter before he could react…and blew his aircraft into a ball of fire, miles above a country that he had disdained above all other countries.  There was no hope of anyone finding his body, or even a trace of his aircraft.

***
“Fuck me,” Dubois said, in honest awe.  “All right, Yank; what the fuck was that?”

Lockwood grinned and waved a hand out of the window.  “That, my froggy friend, was a Turkish F-22D,” he said.  “It took nearly nine months, but the Turks have finally had enough of Mother Russia…and they declared war today.  While we were out freeing prisoners, the Turks have been engaging Russian forces and sent their air force – backed up by aircraft from two American carriers – to clear the way.  At this moment, the US Sixth Fleet has passed through the Bosporus and is engaged in attacking Russian bases right around the Black Sea, incidentally giving us some cover at the same time.”

He picked up the radio.  “Hello, Abdul,” he said.  “It’s good to see a fellow brother in Tommy Cooper again.”

“Nice to hear you as well,” the Turkish pilot said.  “We have tankers waiting and a hero’s welcome in Ankara for you.  Tell your prisoners from me; welcome to Turkey.”

Lockwood laughed.  “I’ve heard about Turkish prisons,” he said.  “Don’t worry; once we’ve finished parading them in front of the world’s press, you are welcome to the bastards.”  He paused.  “And thanks for everything.”

“No trouble,” the Turk agreed.  “Welcome to Turkey.”

Chapter Forty-Eight: The Last Roll of the Dice, Take One

Frontlines, Germany

“The attack will be launched in three hours,” General Damitri Socrov said.  “Are all our forces in position?”

Major Vladimir Ivanov nodded once.  He had seen enough of Socrov to know that the new commanding officer of the Western Front was truly dispassionate.  Nothing seemed to really touch him; he could switch from furious rage to cold amusement at the drop of a hat, feeling nothing at all of the emotions he displayed.  He was cold and calculating; the more malicious side of Ivanov’s own mind wondered just how he had managed to rise to the challenge of having children.

Socrov was…just cold.  He wasn’t sadistic; he would take no pleasure in the old FSB trick of rousting out a father and his daughters, and forcing him to watch as the daughters were raped in front of him, but he wouldn’t shrink from carrying out whatever actions were required to break resistance.  He had slaughtered thousands, perhaps more, in Chechnya, simply through endless pressure and the wanton destruction of food and water supplies.  He hadn’t even hated the Chechens; it was just a task for him, one that he had carried out with brutal efficiency.  No wonder the FSB loved him; he wasn’t a threat to the Director’s position, therefore he could be trusted with the task of commanding an entire army.

Ivanov wanted General Aleksandr Shalenko back in command.  Shalenko had been experienced; Shalenko had also known each and every last detail of running the army.  It was well and good that they hadn’t had to plan the offensive from scratch; Socrov’s planning capabilities were limited.  The task of mowing down helpless villagers or a bunch of Jihadis was a far cry from defeating a powerful and very motivated Pan-Atlantic army.  Socrov hadn’t prepared for a long battle, even with the use of tactical nuclear weapons; how could they have hoped to fight for more than a few hours?  That problem, at least, Ivanov had solved; he had managed to talk Socrov into a delay, just long enough for them to prepare properly.

“Most of our units are on the launching points and are ready to move,” he confirmed.  “The Chinese fighters are ready to leave their airfield and join the massed offensive force as soon as the fighting begins; the current Combat Air Patrol is provided by the last of our own advanced fighters.  Infantry units are prepared to advance into the security zone and clear out the enemy forces patrolling the zone as soon as you command us to move.”

“There are politics involved,” Socrov reminded him.  “This offensive must not fail.”

Ivanov kept his face blank.  Officially, he wasn’t supposed to know that the Turks had declared war, or that the Turkish Army had attacked into the Russian lines leading to Iran, but he had heard anyway, mainly through listening to western media programs.  The light garrison forces that had been occupying the region hadn’t been prepared for a major Turkish offensive, while American and Turkish air strikes had struck at dozens of targets around the Black Sea.  Sevastopol had been attacked several times, just to embarrass the Russian occupation forces; the Ukraine underground had not been slow to respond.  There were already more riots breaking out across the Ukraine and the Russian forces were stretched thin.

Worse, there was the report of the prisoner rescue mission.  The western media had gloated at length about it, reporting with glee on how the American strike force had sneaked through territory that rightfully belonged to Russia, before landing in China, attacking the prison camp, and fleeing with almost all of the prisoners.  The conversation that he had overhead, when Socrov had been talking to the FSB Director, had been enough to warn him that the Russian Federation was on the ropes.  There was no hope of a compromise peace now; it was all or nothing.

“The morale of the men is high, particularly since the mobile brothels and entertainments policy was continued right up until yesterday,” he continued.  “Weapons and equipment have been checked and cleared for operations; guns and long-range missiles have been primed and targeted on their main targets.  Medical services and reserves stand ready to respond to any problem, such as an enemy counterattack or successful WMD strike…”

He spoke on, and on, half-suspecting that Socrov wasn’t really listening to him.  The plan had been to launch the attack within a week of Socrov assuming command, but there had been delays, and more delays; he knew that Socrov worried that the enemy knew what they were planning and had moved their forces to prevent an easy victory…or even to launch a pre-emptive attack of their own.  It might well have been a disaster; his forces had been moving up to the launching points and would have been badly exposed if the NATO forces had launched an attack.  Still, there were barely three hours until the main attack was launched…and there was no sign of anything more than basic readiness on the part of their enemy.

He scowled.  He had hashed out the plan with General Aleksandr Shalenko, before the General had been relieved, and was very grateful that he had done so.  The problem lay in the fact that Shalenko had agreed to a buffer space between EUROFOR and the Russian forces, which would have to be covered by his forces before they could strike.  Both sides had small units of infantry patrolling the buffer; Russian infantry would have to hunt down and destroy their counterparts before they could get into position to start any major sabotage or even provide accurate intelligence on what the Russians were doing.  The attack was going to be very dangerous…and the presence of tactical nuclear weapons didn’t make it any easier.

“In short, we are as ready as we can be,” he concluded.  Nukes might change that; no, there was no question, they would change that.  If Russia started deploying tactical nuclear weapons, he was confident that America, or France, or Britain, would respond by deploying their own weapons.  “The attack will go in at the agreed start time.”

“Good,” Socrov said finally.  If he had any doubts or problems, he kept them to himself; Ivanov had never heard him express doubt, even when they were in private.  The bunker was large enough to give them enough privacy to have a real discussion, instead of a briefing, but Socrov wasn’t interested.  “The special operative has been ordered to proceed with her part of the attack plan.”

Ivanov lifted an eyebrow.  “Special operative?”

The news made him start; had Socrov injected a new element into the planning without telling him?  Russian Special Forces had units running around behind enemy lines, but the tactic had become less and less useful as the Europeans became more alert.  At the beginning of the war, entire bases had been knocked out by commandos; now, they would be lucky to manage to slow enemy reinforcements by a few hours.  Oh, the Germans and French couldn’t guard everything, there were still plenty of targets for a sabotage campaign, but few targets would be really useful for preventing the enemy from responding to the attack.  

He had spoken directly to the General overseeing the commandos.  They has intended to do whatever they could to slow the enemy down, from attacks on German troop transports to mining and destroying bridges in the rear areas, but he hadn’t been hopeful that they could actually win the war on their own.  It wasn’t like it had been, when a German sentry would have hesitated before opening fire; anyone suspicious near a base risked getting shot by a nervous guard with an itchy trigger finger.  The Left had protested…and the protests had been in vain.

He snorted.  It had still escaped him just how Germany – and most of the other European countries – could have forgotten just what war meant and just how nasty the world could be, but they had definitely remembered now.  The Russian Army camped across half of the country had reminded them in no uncertain terms, and ever since the FSB had managed to take responsibility for securing the rear areas, there had been a steady stream of atrocities to keep the German mind focused neatly on defeating the Russians and forcing them out of the country.  General Aleksandr Shalenko had worked to prevent atrocities, but in the end the FSB had won…and inflicted terrifying harm on the civilian population.

“You don’t need to know,” Socrov said finally, confirming Ivanov in his belief that Socrov had had something else up his sleeve than his arms.  He wasn’t impressed; something that the KGB had known for years, but had only partly passed on to the FSB, was that the more complicated an operation was, the less likely it was to succeed.  Everything depended upon Russia winning the coming battle…and unknown elements would only confuse those responsible for directing the battle, like him.  “It’s merely a pawn that has to be played now…”

He shrugged.  Ivanov hadn’t been surprised to learn that Socrov was a chess player.  Most Russian Generals were.  “Major, have the final attack orders cut and sent out as soon as possible,” Socrov continued.  “It’s time to smash the Europeans, once and for all.”

Ivanov didn’t argue.

***
“We are definitely picking up increased radio and microburst transmissions from the Russian and Chinese positions,” Major General Marco Lineman said.  The American representative leaned forwards.  “General, it looks very much as if the Russians are preparing to launch their attack.”

Trautman nodded.  He had been astonished to learn that there were Chinese fighters in Germany, of all places, but it made a certain kind of sense.  The Russians had taken hideous losses in the fighting that had raged over Europe; they clearly needed more air support and had called on the Chinese and Indians to supply that support.  The Chinese pilots had to be fuming, after what had happened in Indonesia; they would be determined to extract a little revenge.

He looked over at Colonel Henri Guichy.  The French officer had finally been promoted at Trautman’s recommendation, but he had not, as yet, been granted a combat command.  Guichy had wanted one and he was definitely qualified to command an infantry or armoured force, but the new high command hadn’t wanted to break up Trautman’s command team.  The fate of Europe hung in the balance, they had said; they hadn’t wanted to risk breaking up the command team on the verge of the decisive battle.

“So far, there have been no reports of any contacts in the buffer zone, but some of our observers are sure that they can hear engines,” Guichy said grimly. “The defenders in Berlin have been reporting suspicious-looking people sneaking around.  The Russians could have the main weight of their armoured forces on us in less than an hour, General; we have to warn the soldiers.”

Trautman nodded coldly.  “Have the warning sent out and inform the commanding officers that I am authorising Red-Two rules of engagement, except in the buffer itself,” he ordered.  “The units in the buffer are to operate under Red-Three; no firing unless fired upon.”

Lineman looked up sharply.  “General, with all due respect…”

Trautman wished, just for a moment, for the unity of the command during the Second World War.  It had been an illusion, of course, but at least Rommel or Hoth or any of the other German military officers hadn’t had to deal with allies with their own agendas.  The Italians had been contemptible; the Balkan units barely worth the effort involved in transporting them to the battle.  He had a dozen strong-willed officers from nine different countries…and each of them had their own agenda for the coming fight.

His lips twitched.  At least he didn’t have the eccentric mind of Adolph Hitler trying to run things from the safety of a command bunker, working from a set of preconceptions that bore no relation to reality.  Hitler had believed that New Zealanders lived in trees and that Slavs were always cowards…and those were the halfway sane beliefs!  Chancellor Hans Konigsberg – thank God – wasn’t cut from the same mould.

“I understand your concerns,” he said, only half-truthfully.  “However, my decision stands.  Andy, forward the orders.”

He looked over at General Florette Rolande.  “Florette, what is the current status of the evacuation plans?”

“Everyone on the lists has been notified that we might be ordering an evacuation of non-combatant personnel,” Florette informed him.  “At the moment, we have around three to four thousand such personnel who have to be evacuated from the battlefield, including supply officers and the media; the non-embedded media, that is.  At your command, we can start moving them all out at once.  The civilians who have not registered for evacuation may just choose to remain or they may panic; in case of such a problem, I have prepared extra transport.”

Trautman nodded.  Cars, trucks and buses were in short supply in Germany these days…and they wouldn’t have been as helpful as it would have seemed.  They had commandeered plenty of civilian units to help move soldiers, reserving only large buses for a possible civilian evacuation, even though anyone who had had half the sense they were born with should have gotten the hell out of the battle zone by now.

“Good,” he said.  “Give the order now; I want all of them on their way out before the Russian tide hits us.”

Florette saluted.  She had come a long way since she had just been a timorous officer, a supply clerk in all, but name, when the war had begun.  Now, he would have almost trusted her to run an armoured division, or at least ensure that it was kept properly supplied with all the logistics it needed to operate properly.  She wore several medals over her breasts and had earned each and every one of them.  She might well have saved EUROFOR from defeat in the first few days of the war.

“I shall see to it at once,” she said.  Officially, she was marked down for evacuation herself, but Trautman wouldn’t have been surprised if she had decided to remain at the command post.  She stood up.  “If you will excuse me?”

“Of course,” Trautman said.  He watched as she left the room, passing Captain Paul Montagne on the way.  The French paratrooper had been appointed as Trautman’s official bodyguard; they had spent a pleasant few hours discussing the daring commando raid on the Chinese prison camp.  Montagne had commented that the risks of the raid would have turned his hair white, but he was awesomely impressed by the raid.  It had been a great success.  “Major Palter?”

The Englishman smiled.  “I have been in contact with the EUROAIR command and they have launched additional fighters to give us some additional Combat Air Patrol aircraft in the air,” he said.  “Tactical support and deep-strike mission aircraft have been prepared for launch, but they’re unwilling to launch them until the attack actually begins, therefore saving wear and tear on the aircraft.  Some of them are quite old and fragile.”

He glanced down at his terminal.  “We should have plenty of air cover within minutes of the Russians launching their attack,” he concluded.  “I don’t think that they will have a chance at gaining air superiority for long.”

“Good,” Trautman said.  He stood up.  “We all know what we have to do,” he said.  “For once, we have the stronger position, the stronger army, and the finest command team in the world.  We are going to take the coming attack and break it, break it so completely that we can throw the Russians out of Germany once and for all.”

He looked around the table.  “Dismissed!”

They filed out of the room, all, but one.  Captain Sameena Hussian had remained behind.  The British Intelligence officer looked nervous.  “General, can I have a word with you?”

Trautman nodded.  “A secure word?”  Sameena nodded; Trautman tapped a command into the door and it locked automatically.  The anti-surveillance devices in the room would prevent anyone from overhearing their conversation.  “Have you gotten a lead on the spy?”

“Yes,” Sameena said.  Her eyes were very bright.  He’d ordered her to find the spy, but he had held out little hope of success.  “I know who it is.”

Before he could react, she drew her pistol and fired once.

Chapter Forty-Nine: The Last Roll of the Dice, Take Two

Frontlines, Germany

Captain Paul Montagne had been sitting back and waiting for Captain Sameena Hussian to emerge from the meeting room when he had heard the shot.  He liked Sameena, in his own way, and had gone out of his way to set up encounters and meetings that allowed him to spend a few moments talking with her.  He had been nerving himself up to ask her out properly, wondering if today would be the day when he would finally have the nerve to ask her out.  There wasn’t much time; technically, she was EUROFOR and he was French Army, so they weren’t in the same chain of command.  That might not last, he had been warned; he knew that the sooner he asked her, the better.

The shot was muffled; the shout of pain was barely audible, but Montagne was on his feet before his brain had caught up with his reflexes, heading towards the door to the meeting room.  It was locked; he drew up his foot and kicked it hard enough to send the door shattering open, he charged in, weapon drawn.  For a moment, he almost stopped dead, seeing Trautman on the ground with blood leaking from his chest.  Sameena was coming around, lifting the pistol she held in her hand, and he realised in a moment of sudden disbelief that she had shot down her commanding officer…and was about to shoot him.

He acted on instinct, cracking down hard with his own pistol, and then punching her in the chest.  Her beautiful face creased with pain and she fell to the ground; he took no chances and searched her roughly, pulling out several smaller weapons and a sharp – and decidedly non-regulation – knife.  She was trying to climb to her feet and he kicked her hard, rolling her over and securing her hands before she could escape; there wasn’t time for half measures.

“Medic,” he bellowed.  Cursing the oversight, he hit the emergency button.  “I need a fucking medic, now!”

Trautman tried to speak, coughing up blood.  Montagne knew that that kind of wound could be survived, if the General received medical attention at once, but there was a war on and everything was confused.  He tried to tell Trautman not to sleep as two of his paratroopers came crashing into the room, their eyes going wide with shock as they took in the scene.

“Tell Bush,” Trautman said, hissing blood.  “Tell him…”

“Don’t try to talk,” Montagne said, wondering why Trautman would want him to tell the former President of America anything.  It took him a moment to realise that he meant General Geoffrey Bradford Wilkinson, who had been nicknamed Bush by a wag on his command staff; the name had just stuck.  “You have to lie still.”

He turned to one of his men.  “Get that fucking medic…”

Trautman grabbed his arm.  His grasp felt weak and old, as feeble as a child’s grip.  “Tell Bush he has command and tell him…tell him not to fuck up,” he said.  The medic charged into the room, swore, and started to work on Trautman’s body.  “Tell him…”

He coughed.  “Tell him that the Russians are coming,” he snapped.  “Don’t let him fuck up.”

“I have to get him into the medical bay,” the medic said.  “Help me to move him.”

Montagne nodded and looked over at Sameena.  The young officer looked back evenly, through eyes that glittered with pain; he had hit her badly and her position was uncomfortable.  He had twisted her arm while applying flexicuffs to her hands and she had to be screaming inside.  She kept her mouth firmly closed, but he could see the pain on her face.

Something burst inside him and he kicked her bum, hard.  “Who the fuck are you?”  He demanded.  “Who are you…?”

“Sir,” one of his men said.  Montagne took a breath and forced himself to remain calm.  He had the training and authority to undertake a battlefield interrogation – and hurting her would be almost a pleasure after what she’d done – but it wouldn’t help in the situation.  Whoever she really was – and he thought cold thoughts about the levels of security that she had had access to – she had just crippled their command staff.  “Sir, what do we do with her?”

Montagne rounded on him.  “Secure her legs, and then get her into the secure holding pen for high-risk prisoners,” he snapped.  “Treat her as a commando and make fucking sure she is fucking helpless, understand?  Check her teeth and body for any surprises and…oh, just damn it, move!”

He reached over towards Trautman’s computer.  He had to warn the American that he was suddenly in command…before the Russians took advantage of the confusion to get their blows in first.  He’d always believed that the Russians were bastards…and this proved it, spectacularly.  He watched as three men hauled Sameena out of the room, noting how her uniform was torn, and wondered, again, why every woman in his life had to betray him.

***
“What the fuck’s happened?”

General Geoffrey Bradford Wilkinson hadn’t expected to serve as more than the commander of Third Corps, even the reinforced American detachment, not after the massive political argument over who should hold the post of SACEUR.  The Europeans hadn’t entirely trusted their American allies – or at least they hadn’t entirely trusted them not to take the war in directions they didn’t want – and so they had insisted on Trautman retaining the overall command.  Wilkinson had studied Trautman in battle and had reluctantly concurred with the arrangement; there was no questioning either Trautman’s bravery or his competence.

“Sir, the General’s been shot down by one of his officers,” the Frenchman said.  He had been one of Trautman’s bodyguards, Wilkinson remembered; he had clearly failed in his duty, but who had expected anything like that?  The Russians had thrown away a priceless intelligence assert…for what?  The thought chilled him; had the Russians intended to have Trautman killed, or was it the start of their offensive.  “You have command.”

“And that will last as long as it takes for everyone else to start complaining,” Wilkinson snapped.  If they really were under attack, there wasn’t time to start arguing over who had the command.  “Thank you; have the senior staff come at once to my bunker and have the remainder of the command staff moved to the rear.”

“Yes, sir,” the Frenchman said, and broke the connection.

Wilkinson took a deep breath.  “Major, I want you to send out a databurst to all units,” he said.  “Inform them that General Trautman has been assassinated by a Russian agent and I am taking command until the NATO General Council nominates a replacement.  Bring the alert to Red-One and warn them that there may already be a major Russian offensive underway.”

There was a ping from one of his displays.  “Sir,” the operator said, “we have a large force of Russian, Chinese and Indian aircraft rising from their airfields in East Germany and Poland.”  Her voice weakened slightly.  “Sir, there are around six hundred aircraft rising into the air.”

Wilkinson swore.  “Send the warning back up the chain to EUROAIR and tell them to scramble everything they have,” he snapped.  “Tell them…that every man and woman is expected to do his or her duty.”

***
Lieutenant Graham Weir checked his assault rifle as the small patrol wove its way along the roadside, then tugged at his new uniform self-consitenously.  It had been one of the unquestioned benefits of the Third World War that the Canadian Government had finally given in and assigned its soldiers some decent uniforms, rather than the multi-service ones that had been all the rage, years ago, in Canada.  Seventy years of nearly-unbroken peace, apart from a handful of terrorist outrages, had left the Canadian Government more willing to spend money on prostitutes than its army, even though the army had seen some overseas service in pursuit of various terrorist groups.

It had been the loss of the Lethbridge that had forced the Canadian Government to start taking the military seriously – that, and the humiliation of Lieutenant Stephanie Tsuji.  The public outrage had been enormous, particularly after it emerged that there was nothing that Canada could do, on its own, to free the Canadian pilot, or even to avenge her death.  It wasn’t even clear if the destroyed ship had fired a shot before it was sunk, or not; in the end, it had been the Americans who had rescued her.  By that time, the Canadian Government had sought political cover in throwing money at the armed services and trying to repair some of the damage.  It wasn’t enough; Weir knew that the infantry unit that had been sent to Europe was nowhere near as capable as the European units…and they were armed with British cast-offs, the shoddy SA80 combat rifle.  The British MOD had kept the weapon in service much longer than any sane government would have done…and the Canadian Government, typically, had gladly accepted the weapons without bothering to ask why the British had wanted to be rid of them.  Even modified, the SA80 was lethal to everyone involved, from the target to the person who was actually trying to fire the weapon.

He stopped as he heard helicopters in the distance.  The entire buffer zone had been evacuated, although not by any deliberate act of EUROFOR; the Russians had refused to permit an evacuation.  Instead, thousands of civilians had fled the looming presence of the Russians, after some of them had felt the Russian jackboot on their necks.  The Russians hadn’t made themselves welcome, by far.  Weir had heard awful tales of looting, rape and fire.  Some of them had perhaps been exaggerated, but others had been all too clear.  A town they regularly patrolled had been burned to the ground by the Russians, apparently for harbouring an injured serviceman.

“Sir, the HQ just upgraded our ROE to Red-One,” Sergeant Daniels said.  He held up a small, American-made terminal for Weir’s attention; Canada hadn’t bothered to do more than the minimum for compliance with NATO’s standards before the war had broken out and so Weir had no terminal of his own.  “That’s permission to fire first if we believe ourselves to be in danger.”

Weir listened.  He could hear more than just helicopters now; he could hear tanks and trucks in the distance.  “I know,” he said.  The patrol had been walking casually; now they formed into combat formation without having to be ordered.  The raw material to make good soldiers was there; all they needed was some proper equipment and some proper training.  The training budget, too, had only recently been pushed to anything like a decent level.  “Call in the contact and ask for orders.”

He was starting to feel exposed, even though he was unable to see any enemy soldiers; there could be plenty of snipers or worse waiting out somewhere under cover.  He’d been shot at by a sniper before and the experience had been terrifying.  The German autobahn had been fought over during the first round of fighting and the remains of a tank – no one had been able to work out what side that tank had fought on – was clear proof that the war had passed through the region.  The patrol was standing on one of the main access routes that the Russians could use, one that they would know as well as he did that they had to take and secure.

His lips twitched.  As a firebreak, his force didn’t really have a lot to recommend it.

“They’re ordering us to proceed east and to report back when we encounter the enemy,” Sergeant Daniels said.  The nine men in the patrol exchanged glances; some of them would almost certainly not come back if they got too close to the enemy.  They were all brave and loyal – Canada had hardly made any effort to keep their soldiers had they wanted to leave – but none of them wanted to just throw their lives away.  “Sir, I recommend getting off the road.”

“No shit,” Weir said. He waved the point men towards a crest and they led the way, leapfrogging forward to ensure that the entire force wasn’t surprised as they started to walk slowly east.  The noise of enemy vehicles was growing louder, and then they were joined by another noise, just as they were approaching a major crossing point.  He saw them now, massive tanks adapted as bulldozers, shoving the remains of the bridge aside…to allow a wave of black T-100 tanks to head west.  Smaller vehicles, some of them Russians on motorbikes, roared ahead of them; the armoured force was heading directly towards the Canadian HQ.  How long would it be before they reached their target?  Another noise echoed out and he saw a wave of tanks cresting the hill; the Russians had managed to find another way through the damaged bridge and drive onwards towards the NATO lines.

“Call it in,” he hissed.  He cursed the penny-pinching of the Canadian Government; his force could have destroyed a handful of tanks and blocked the Russians for a few hours, if they had had any antitank weapons.  Their grenades wouldn’t do more than dent their armour…and then their machine guns would rip them to pieces.  “Tell them that this place needs a fucking…”

Three combat jets raced overhead, so low that he felt as if he could almost touch them, heading west.  The noise of their passing was so loud that he was almost deafened as they roared on into the distance, trying to attack NATO positions before the Europeans and Americans could get ready to receive them.  He saw a streak of light, in the distance, as one of the aircraft ran afoul of a ground-based missile, but the others raced on, untouched.

“Call in and tell them that this place has to be hit with missiles or aircraft,” he snapped, as soon as he had recovered.  “Tell them to hurry; there’s upwards of a few hundred Russian tanks coming our way.”

One of his men folded over and collapsed.  Weir stared for just a moment, and then realised with a sudden frisson of fear that they were being fired upon.  “Get down,” he shouted, throwing himself down.  Russian infantry were advancing on their position, trying to flush them out before they could interfere with the assault.  “We have to move!”

He crawled towards the west, hoping that the Russians couldn’t see them before they either managed to break contact, or found a place to make a stand.  It was a vain hope; the Russians fired into the foliage, their bullets ripping through the camouflage and nearly striking his team as they crawled down away from the Russians.  He watched as Sergeant Daniels drew his small silenced pistol and fired two quick shots; a scream announced that he had hit someone.  The Russians fired a deadly stream of bullets back and he closed his eyes, expecting to be hit at any moment, as the red-hot bullets cracked through the air.

“Grenades,” he muttered, and pulled one off his belt.  Several of his men were doing the same and they threw them together, the explosions providing cover for a desperate run towards an old barn.  The barn looked old enough to have been fought over by Frederick the Great, but it was sturdy and easy to defend.  The Russians came after them, but by then he had found a proper position and they were ready to defend themselves.

“Sarge,” he called, “is there anything from HQ?”

“Just that there’s a major war going on,” Sergeant Daniels replied.  He had carefully placed his combat rifle in the best possible position for engaging the enemy.  The Russians were crashing their way through the trees and would be in sight within moments; a handful of his men with sharpshooter qualifications fired into the trees, hoping to force the Russians to stay back.  “I don’t think that we will be seeing any back-up soon, sir.”

The noise of combat was almost overwhelming as the first Russians emerged from the trees.  They hadn’t expected his people to turn and fight, despite the handful of hits by the sharpshooters; four Russians were mown down before the remainder threw themselves to the ground and started to crawl forward.  They were brave, Weir realised, even as many Russians were just hacked down before they could kill more of his people.

Sergeant Daniels was looking into the sky.

“Shit,” he said.

Weir looked up…and saw the helicopter as it swooped out of the sky.  He opened his mouth to shout a warning, just as the helicopter unleashed a hail of bullets and rockets onto his position.  There was a brief moment of terrible burning pain…and then darkness.  His last awareness was that of the barn exploding in a massive gout of fire.

Chapter Fifty: The Last Roll of the Dice, Take Three

Frontlines, Germany

Across the entire battlefield, thousands of Russian guns began to fire, launching thousands of shells towards the European positions.  Counter-battery radars picked up the shells and calculated the locations of their launchers, firing back precisely targeted NATO shells in hopes of knocking out the Russian guns.  Russian radars tracked back the NATO shells and fired secondary shells of their own; a deadly duel of artillery and high explosives had begun.

High over the battlefield, Pact aircraft turned west and activated their afterburners.  Rocketing forward, they screamed towards their targets, attempting to gain air superiority and defeat the Allied CAP before reinforcements could arrive from the French and British bases supporting the soldiers on the ground.  The fighting raged backwards and forwards,, neither side gaining or losing an advantage.

On the ground, it was a different story…

***
“Move, you dogs,” the FSB Officer shouted.  “Now is the time for you to redeem yourself in the eyes of the Rodina!”

Suki kept his head down and tried not to be noticed as the penal brigade charged towards the German positions.  He cursed the General under his breath, even as they ran towards the Germans, firing bursts from their AK-47s as they ran, inviting the Germans to open fire and massacre them.  The penal brigades were expendable, as far as the FSB were concerned; the men behind him would shoot him down if he so much as turned his head from the enemy.  The General just had had to turn up at the polish farm that his squad had been using for some rest and relaxation, hadn’t he?

The thought of the Polish farmwomen was no consolation as the Germans opened fire.  One of them had been blonde and almost Germanic in appearance, the other had had dark red hair and had the finest body he had ever seen, anywhere.  They had been daughters of a farmer who had been tired up while his daughters had been forced to dance for the men, and then bend over to be repeatedly raped, one after the other.  They had been having the time of their lives…when the damned General had arrived, along with his bodyguards and had promptly arrested the entire group.  It had been the penal brigades or a quick and unpleasant death…and Suki hadn’t been willing to die at the hands of his own countrymen.  The General was probably bedding the daughters now, while Suki was dodging Germans to the front and FSB firing squads behind.  There seemed to be no way out.

He threw himself down to the ground as the Germans fired a burst of machine gun fire, raking them down in a chilling return to the mud, blood and terror of the First World War.  He crawled forward, seeing the sheer size of the German lines as they pressed against them, and tossed his one and only grenade over into a German bunker.  The explosion was shoddy, like so much else surrounding the penal units; they had no choice, but to use equipment that was older than many of the men in the platoon.  It wouldn’t have killed the supply units to have provided him with a decent weapon, but penal units had a habit of deserting and couldn’t be trusted with really new weapons.  Besides, everyone knew the AK-47; it had never gone out of fashion.

“Forward,” an FSB officer shouted, as the men started to falter in the face of German fire.  Some of them had fallen to the ground and were refusing to move; their only hope would be being taken prisoner by the Germans, rather than falling back into the hands of the FSB.  They would kill them for cowardliness.  “Move!”

Suki pulled himself forward and accidentally stumbled into a German trench.  The Germans had concealed it well; he hadn’t even known that it was there before he had stumbled into it.  There was a German there, staring at him; they locked eyes for a long moment before they both went for their weapons.  Suki was just a fraction quicker and blew the German apart, before he started to crawl forward, through the trench system.  The Germans had produced thousands of little bunkers, weaving it all into a single long line, and he was inside.  Something moved, behind him…

***
Hans fired before the Russian knew that he was there, and then vomited into the trench.  The entire network had been much larger than he had expected, stretching out for miles, and it had taken nearly six months to build.  Hans had been spared conscription into the infantry because of his engineering degree, but owing to bad planning, he had been caught in the trenches during the frantic final stages of preparing for the fighting.  He was sixteen…and felt a lot younger as the Russian bled to death in front of him.

“Get your fucking head down,” someone shouted, slamming into Hans’ back before he could react.  They both went sprawling into the mud.  “If I was a fucking Russian, you moron, you’d be dead by now.”

Hans coughed up mud.  “Karl?”

“Sergeant Schmitt,” the Sergeant snapped.  “Stay down!”

Hans heard it then, a massive hail of…whistling bomblets as they fell out of the sky, slamming down all around them.  The trenches shook like an earthquake, sending entire sections caving in on their occupants; he whimpered as the Sergeant held him firmly down.  He could barely move, sheer terror freezing what little the sergeant wasn't holding down; he wanted to curl up in a corner and wait for it all to end.

“Those poor bastards were used to force us to put our fucking heads up,” Sergeant Schmitt growled.  Hans wasn't even sure what he was doing in the trench.  “Listen!”

A whistle blew, somehow audible over the trenches; he looked east and saw the first signs of a major Russian attack.  The woodland that anchored one end of the trench system was burning; the trees seemed capable of burning forever under the Russian impact.  In the distance, three heavy Russian tanks had appeared, heading directly towards the trench, led by a smaller vehicle that reminded him of nothing more than a crab, moving slowly across the land.

Sergeant Schmitt spoke briefly into his radio and then turned to Hans.  “The bastards have punched through the line, further down,” he said.  “We have to get the hell out of here before they pocket and destroy this section, so follow me and keep your fucking head down!”

The noise of the Russian tanks grew louder as the two men made their way through the trenches.  Several of the bunkers, made in German and French factories and then transported to the front, had been hit and torn open by the Russian weapons, utterly shattered along with their occupants.  The thought reminded him of the dead Russian, the man he’d killed; he started to shake uncontrollably.  His parents had almost wanted him to flee to Canada or Switzerland, rather than be drafted; in the end, he had avoided the draft and ended up in the war anyway.  He had killed…

Sergeant Schmitt looked up at him as they met up with a group of other soldiers, one of them hefting a missile launcher.  “Your first kill, lad?”  Hans nodded.  “Don’t worry, it gets easier.”

A man wearing EUROFOR insignia, those of a Captain, accepted their salutes.  “We are being pocketed,” he said, as a hail of rockets headed east.  The Russian tanks were being targeted by a MLRS truck, some distance from the front line, and taking the worst of the impact.  They were still coming, however; he felt sorry for the Russian infantrymen, even if they had come from a penal squad.  Perhaps they had been guilty of nothing more than questioning orders from the FSB.  He knew that he would never know.  “The line broke to the north and is buckling to the south, and Berlin is taking a beating.  We have been ordered to fall back before we are pocketed and trapped.”

Hans saw Sergeant Schmitt nod and agreed with him.  No one was quite sure what happened to Russian POWs, but everyone agreed that it wasn't good.  If the Russians were prepared to spend their own men, even people guilty of breaking Russian military law, like water, there was no limit to what they might do to helpless POWs.

“Come on, lad,” Sergeant Schmitt said, as the small group started to head west.  “We have to get into the second line, and then we can kill Germans like flies.”

Hans kept his mouth shut.  What could he have said?

***
Despite himself, General Geoffrey Bradford Wilkinson was starting to wish that there had been another European commander who could have replaced Trautman; there were elements to the European armies fighting that he had never guessed at, until he had had to command the force.  The core units of EUROFOR were definitely up to American standards, even though they had insufficient equipment, but some of the national units were very much a mixed bag.  The British, French and German units were tough, but they had all had experience; some of the newer units on the battlefield had simply not adjusted from fighting Jihadis to fighting a full-scale war.  Much to his chagrin, that had included a National Guard unit from the States.

He’d met an USN commander who hated Canadians, persistently referring to them as cowards and traitors, but the Canadian infantry were holding their section of the line, but they were running out of ammunition.  Usage rates had been much – much – higher than anyone had thought, and it didn’t help that much of the Canadian equipment was incompatible with NATO or EUROFOR equipment.  They would need to be reinforced soon, but at the same time, the Germans were fighting like mad bastards in the streets of Berlin.  Four Russian heavy infantry units had surrounded and probed into Berlin; after they’d been thrown out, the Russians had gotten serious and brought up the heavy weapons.  The scale of the fighting was horrifying…and he would soon have to commit his reserves.

The ground rumbled.  “Long-range Russian cruise missile, fired from an aircraft,” an aide said, without being asked.  “The bastard got through the air battle without being noticed.”

Wilkinson wanted to curse, but held himself back.  The air battle was savage, with aircraft being hit and destroyed by the hundreds.  There wasn't a winner yet and whoever won, he was starting to see, would do so with only a handful of aircraft.  The air control network had started to break down under the sheer confusion of the battle, with pilots flying with whatever wingmen they could pick up and fly into the battle with.  Dozens of pilots had returned to their bases to rearm, refuel, and head back into the fighting; the pilots would soon start showing signs of fatigue.

And the line was crumbling at a major point.  The Russian attack had seemed to be focused along the entire line, forcing him to hold back his reserves until he was sure where the Russians had designated as their spearpoint, but now they had found a weak point and were hammering it with what seemed like two armoured units, perhaps even a reconstituted Shock Army.  They hadn’t realised it yet, but through either luck or judgement, they had pocketed and destroyed the entire infantry unit that was supposed to be holding that section of the line…and there was no other choice, but to commit his reserves to engage the enemy.

“Henri,” he said.  He hadn’t been impressed with France’s military performance until seeing some of the reports from the Third World War.  French units had consistently performed well…and the French had been involved in Operation Rescue.  Colonel Henri Guichy had been Trautman’s aide, but the German General was currently fighting for his life in a hospital emergency room.  “I want you to order the 1st EUROFOR Armoured Division forward, backed up by the Dutch infantry, with orders to plug the leak in the dam.”

Guichy didn’t smile.  He had spent long enough with Trautman to be aware of the politics surrounding the entire European force deployed to the region.  The Americans were regarded as dangerous cowboys by many Europeans and they would have preferred another European in overall command.  If there had been a qualified candidate…Wilkinson would have been happy to hand over command to him.

“Yes, sir,” he said.  His hands danced across the command and control system; that, at least, was familiar.  Wilkinson had started out on the American-designed system back in America and apart from the different language option, EURONET was practically identical.  The political row over EURONET had almost put the one over SACEUR in the shade.  “I have issued the orders as you commanded.”

Wilkinson heard the hint of insubordination in his voice and ignored it.  Trautman had clearly been a greater commander than he had thought, having forged a command staff that had managed to work together despite several different nations and priorities.  Of course, one of them had tried to kill him…

He studied the display.  Icons were moving, red, blue and green, clashing together in the darkest of manners.  It wouldn’t be long before the European and American tanks impacted with the Russian tanks, while the Russians peeled back the European lines and blasted their way through Berlin, heading towards the centre of the city.  Berlin had plenty of Germans dug in and there were plenty of ideas on how to defend the city; Trautman had once told him that veterans from the East and West German garrisons during the Cold War had even volunteered to come back to the fighting to serve as advisors.  It might not have made any difference, but perhaps…perhaps some of the lessons from the Cold War could be employed now, to save democracy from the Russian hordes.

He closed his eyes.  “Any sign of Russian ground-based missiles?”

He meant tactical nukes.  “No,” Guichy said.  “We have such missiles automatically designated for Metalstorm engagement” – he scowled; the system worked rather too well, as it had accidentally engaged and destroyed several European missiles as well as one Russian cruise missile that had been heading towards Denmark – “but so far the Russians haven’t shown their hand.”

“Good,” Wilkinson said.  It was always the waiting that was the hardest part.  He had played war games at the Pentagon that the users could speed up, but that wasn’t possible in real life.  “Keep me informed.”

***
The smoke and fire of the battle could be seen from Captain Jose Aviles’s cockpit as the Batman aircraft headed south into Poland, flying low to avoid detection.  The Russians had filled Poland with mobile radar units and – the spoilsports – had linked them together though a dedicated landline that had had to have taken them months to construct.  Their persistence was uncanny; the Russians hadn’t looked for the most advanced solution, as an American would have done, but the low-tech solution.  They might just have managed to finally produce a way of detecting the Batmen.

Aviles checked his HUD as the aircraft rocketed onwards.  The Swedes hadn’t known a thing about him swinging out over Sweden before heading into Poland, but the Russians had brought up more ground-based SAM systems than he had known existed, pushing them forward against the front.  Allied aircraft flying near the battle lines risked being shot down; the Russians had even rushed some new prototypes into production to enhance their killing abilities.  His Batman was radiating no betraying emissions, but all it needed was a Russian to notice an odd radar return…and one of the MIG-41 aircraft flashing into and out of the battle would come to investigate.  He was sure that he could have killed a MIG in a dogfight, but he had other priorities, other fish to kill.  At the speed he was travelling, he would be on his target before the Russians even knew he was there.

The Russians had a massive supply base, built up along the Polish border and used it to hold supplies for the fighting.  Human intelligence, mainly working with the Polish resistance, had indicated that there were Poles forced to work on the base, although if that was sadism or a sign that the Russians were running out of manpower wasn’t clear.  The Poles had warned that the base needed to be taken out, the sooner the better, but the Russians had erected dozens of SAM launchers and even Metalstorm units around the base.  It needed the services of a stealth fighter…and Aviles had his hands on the control stick.

The Polish countryside looked damaged by the fighting, in places; he passed over convoys of Russian trucks, heading west.  At one point, he headed over a prison camp; he’d heard rumours about how the Russians treated the Poles they had caught in the act of resistance.  He wanted to blast the fence from his position, but instead, he held his fire; it wasn’t long until the base.

The orbiting satellites had already provided targeting coordinates.  The on-board computer had locked them into his missiles as the aircraft swooped up, over a hill manned by stunned Russians who hadn’t even seen him coming, and there the camp was, below him.  It was massive, just like a Russian camp; the Russians had always favoured the ‘one large site’ theory.  So had EUROFOR; a few more days of fighting back during the Russian push into Germany and they would have run out of ammunition.  

Only the computer could control the weapons perfectly, launching the twin bunker-busting weapons as soon as he entered range, and then he yanked the aircraft away from a burst of tracer fire as the Russians tried to knock down his aircraft.  He knew that he should run from the enemy, but he couldn’t resist waiting to see what happened when the weapons slammed into the Russian ammunition dump…

The explosion picked up his aircraft and threw it through the sky.  He fought desperately to regain control; for a terrible moment, he believed that he had detonated a Russian nuke.  Behind him, a fearful mushroom cloud was rising, chilling him even as his onboard systems confirmed that it had been merely a massive detonation of conventional explosives.

“Fuck,” he said.  The fighting had just taken a serious blow.  The Russians would be furious…or at least he hoped so.  “You can get rid of the fucking MOAB now…”

Chapter Fifty-One: The Last Roll of the Dice, Take Four

Frontlines, Germany

“Here the bastard comes,” the driver said.  “Sir, I hope you’re ready with the trigger finger.”

Captain Guntar Markus shrugged.  “You worry too much,” he said, as the Russian attack helicopter ghosted towards them, weapons at the ready.  The Russians had to be using their helicopters to scout for possible enemy units waiting to ambush their armoured units as they broke through the lines; close-air support was becoming a joke in the furious air battle overhead.  The only air support his unit had ever had in the battle was a single pass by an A10 Warthog, which had blasted a Russian position and then had been shot out of the sky by a ZSU unit.  “Don’t worry, we’ll be fine.”

“I hope you’re right, Captain,” the driver said.  He paused as the Russian aircraft came closer.  “Sir?”

“Fire,” Markus said, and pushed the firing key.  A single SAM launched from the rear of the Eurotank and struck the Russian helicopter before it could react.  Flaming debris fell down upon the earth.  “Didn’t want the bastard to have a chance to shoot back.”

“Yes, sir,” the driver said, sounding hardly worried.  “I knew that we could count on you.”

Markus laughed.  The small unit of tanks had been moving up to ambush a Russian force that everyone expected would punch through the rapidly weakening lines to the south of Berlin.  The Germans and French in the lines were still fighting like mad bastards and were slowing the Russians, but the Russians were pressing against them hard enough to break through, eventually.  Only the pre-registered killing lanes had given them a chance to weaken the enemy before they broke through.

An alarm flashed up on the terminal.  The defence line was finally crumbling under the weight of the Russian attack, perhaps led by penal troops, perhaps spearheaded by a force of heavy tanks.  The penal soldiers were madder than any other enemy force he had met, with the possible exception of various Jihadis; their determination to win back the favour of Mother Russia led them into suicidal charges against the European lines.  The Europeans had been reluctant to fire, at first; the sheer weight of the Russian attack had swiftly cured them of that reluctance.  The Russians soaked up the losses and came on anyway.

It was brutal.  It was madness.  It was war!

“They’re coming,” he said.  The display was now showing units vanishing at a terrifying rate; he hoped that the person in charge had had the sense to order a retreat before he was killed by the Russians.  Russian tanks would now be crunching European soldiers as they pressed onwards, trying to weaken the defences by forcing open the hole and widening it still further.  “They’re going to know that we’re here; stand at the ready.”

He didn’t bother issuing orders to the other tanks; they all knew what they had to do.  The Russians would come into view and they would engage them, and then they would move, quickly, before the Russians could bring up artillery or additional helicopter support.  He’d checked their line of retreat; they could make it back to their next firing position before the Russians could stop them, if they were lucky.  They’d certainly practiced it enough.

A second message blinked up on his display.  American and British armoured units were being moved forward to support him; the breach had to be worse than it seemed.  He checked, quickly; the Russians were crashing through on a much larger scale now…and they were working rapidly to expand their gains.  They weren’t taking the time to exterminate every last defender; they were trying to destroy NATO as a coordinated force…which meant that they would attempt to shatter his small unit.

“Over my dead body,” he muttered, as a hail of Russian shells flashed overhead, heading west.  Some Russian had managed to get a sniff of the reinforcements and had prioritised them for attention by a set of Russian guns; the shells roared overhead before they came crashing down somewhere in the distance.  Units flickered up microburst transmissions, warning of damage; burst treads, shattered guns…it was harder to destroy a tank through shellfire than it seemed, but even chewing up the ground would be irritating.  “They shall not pass.”

He saw them, then; four Russian tanks appearing over the horizon.  They came onwards, their weapons firing at targets only they could see; they didn’t seem to have seen his unit yet.  He muttered commands to the gunner and the gunner adjusted the Eurotank’s main gun, carefully taking aim at the lead Russian tank.  They’d been taught to look for the command tank, but there were no longer any betraying antennas on the Russian vehicles and the onboard intelligence software was unable to locate any tank that was more active on the radio bands than any others.  The Russians were pumping out hundreds of encrypted transmissions…and none of them suggested that they carried orders.  They could all be carrying orders, or none of them; the signal would be lost in the noise.

The Russians saw them.  With terrifying speed, their gun barrels lowered and sighted in on the European positions.  Markus didn’t hesitate and snapped out the command to fire; seven tanks fired as one and seven Russian tanks died, the others firing back madly towards the European position as they attempted to avenge their comrades’ deaths.  Markus felt pure rage flooding through him as another Russian tank blew up; he wanted to remain where he was and keep killing until he could kill no more.  They shall not pass!

A shell exploded, far too close to his tank for comfort; he realised at the corner of his mind that three of his subordinate tanks had been destroyed.  The Russians were still coming, but they had infantry advancing as well, armed with antitank weapons.  Long-range shells roared down, slamming into the ground and shaking him as they shattered what had once been a field.  The air battle raced overhead as four helicopters fired madly towards the Russian positions, one of them, incredibly, blown out of the sky by a single shot from a Russian main tank gun.  Others hit Russian tanks, leaving entire units in flaming ruin, before Russian VTOL jets flashed through, launching air-to-air missiles.

“We need fucking air support,” Markus screamed into his radio, as the driver lurched the tank into motion.  He forced himself to keep collected as Russian and Allied missiles slammed through the skies, high above and coming down towards him and his opponents.  An American drone bomber flashed overhead, bombing the Russian position as Russian shells fell down on the Allied forces, driving them back.  He saw a shell hit a Eurotank directly and blow it apart in a single massive gout of fire…

Combat jets raced overhead as the centre of the air battle circled in on their position.  Even as his tank staggered back towards their second firing position, Russian and American aircraft duelled for the sky, engaging each other with missiles and guns.  It was no longer under anyone’s control; there were hundreds of aircraft within a few square miles of sky.  His tank’s antiaircraft systems were commandeered; three SAM missiles were launched towards what he could only hope were Russian aircraft.  The entire battle had become a monster; he prayed madly for the souls of any civilians caught in the fighting as it grew out of control…

Silence fell, just for a moment.  The air battle had moved off to the east and he hoped that meant that NATO was winning.  He took a long breath as the tank kept moving back, and then the proximity sensors sounded an alarm, Russian infantry were closing in on them.  The gunner didn’t wait for orders; he sprayed them with machine gun fire before they could get more than one antitank rocket off, aimed at his tank.  It missed, by sheer millimetres, exploding harmlessly against the ground.  The shells returned, just long enough to rattle him, and then the tank was finally reaching its position as a row of American tanks appeared, heading towards the battle.

He took the chance to take a drink of water as Allied infantry arrived, securing the area before the Russians could attack and drive them back.  Allied gunners had the location of the Russian attack prong now and were shelling it madly with antitank-guided shells, the latest American precision weapons for the war.  The display was cautiously optimistic; the Russians had crushed part of the line, and it was buckling in other places, but they might just have slammed the lid back down and prevented the Russians from making major gains.  Berlin itself would be devastated in the furious fighting, but it wouldn’t matter, not in the long run.  They were chewing up the entire Russian army in the fighting…and that was what mattered.

“They’re sending the reloading units out,” he said.  He glanced at his watch; had it really only been fifteen minutes since they had engaged the Russian tanks.  “We’d better get ready to meet them.”

“A damn good thing, too,” the gunner said.  “We spent up three quarters of our shells in shooting those Russian tanks, and almost emptied the machine guns.”

“Fuck,” Markus said tiredly.  They didn’t have time to take a rest; the Russian gunners had found the range to the American guns and were pounding them back.  One way or the other, the Russians would soon be on their way again…and they would have to throw them back, with as much force as they could muster.  “Open the access points; get ready to receive the ammo before the bastards come back, out for blood.”

A combat jet screamed across the land and flashed over their heads before they could react.  He breathed a sigh of relief as he realised that the jet wasn’t Russian; he wasn’t sure that he could have handed a new attack before he had had a chance to catch his breath.  He was breathing heavily, knowing that the fighting was far from over; he felt as if he had been running all day.  Combat fatigue, they called it; a tiredness that could kill, under the right circumstances.  He reached for the small medical pack, to find a booster, and shook his head.  Battle drugs were not recommended, and with good reason; he would have to survive without them.

“The Russians are massing again,” the gunner said, as he examined the display.  It had been intended to give a perfect breakdown of all the forces involved in the fighting, but the surveillance systems hadn’t stood up to the test of full-scale war.  The electronic distortion and the destruction of vast numbers of satellites had limited the information about the Russian forces; the fog of war had returned with a vengeance.  “I think that we’ll be back in action within an hour.”

“I see,” Markus said.  The Russians would be trying to get their infantry over into the pocket first, to clear away the German and other Allied infantry, and then they would send in their tanks to punch through the rapidly-developing defence line.  Hundreds of American and German tanks were being routed towards the salient; almost the entire Third Corps would be coming to reinforce them, if they had time.  “Get a drink; it’s going to be a long day.”

***
Major Vladimir Ivanov turned to face General Damitri Socrov and blinked; the Russian FSB officer looked oddly…nervous.  His face, normally as cold as ice, seemed oddly sweaty; what was affecting him so much?  It couldn’t be the massive death toll – thousands of Russians had died already and thousands more would die soon – but something else, the possibility that, perhaps, he would fail in his mission.  Russian politics could be very unmerciful to the loser…

“General, the NATO forces are rushing reinforcements towards the salient,” he said.  The situation was very clear on the map; the Russians had punched out some space to deploy, but the Allies were preparing to smash it flat as their forces regrouped.  American and German units had been reported as heading towards the salient, enough force to pinch off the Russian forces present, pocket them, and then crush them.  “We need to move additional units into the pocket quickly.”

Even as he spoke, he knew that it was useless.  The Russian forces were fully engaged along almost the entire line, and the mobile reserves that were intended to exploit any breakthrough were either out of range or committed already.  There might be more breakthroughs – it was possible that the forces committed to the north would break through and reach Hamburg – but none of them could become strategic.  The devastation inflicted on the Pact air forces was proof of that.  The war had become a war of attrition…and the loss rates were high enough to make him wonder if Russia could win.

“They’re massing where?”  Socrov asked.  The FSB Officer leaned forwards.  “Show me.”

Ivanov tapped the display.  “Scouts report them as massing here, here, and here,” he said, indicating the locations.  “There are enough SAM units massed around them to make an air attack suicidal for us.”

“I wasn’t thinking about air attacks,” Socrov said.  Ivanov could hear the stress in his voice.  “Contact the Special Weapons Detachment.  I think it’s time that we gave them new orders.”

Ivanov stared at him.  “Sir…?”

“Yes,” Socrov said flatly.  “Order them to engage the targets with tactical nuclear shells.  I want four more shells on each of the main enemy centres of resistance, here and here, understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Ivanov said.  They were entering the unknown, condemning thousands of men to death so casually.  “I will issue the orders at once, but it will require your codes.”

Socrov nodded.  “Yes,” he said flatly.  “There is no choice.”

***
The Russian shell narrowly missed Bauer where he was hiding; it felt as if the Russians had been aiming directly at him with a weapon designed to knock down an entire building.  The shell struck a skyscraper behind him and brought it down, shattering the work of years as the Russians fought their way through Berlin.  The Germans had been forced back as the Russians poured on the pressure, clearing entire buildings through heavy artillery and infantry assaults.

“Where are you, you bastard?”  Bauer asked, as he peered through his sniper-scope.  The Russians had been advancing through this particular section of Berlin, trying to hunt down resistance, only to discover that the Germans intended to make them fight for each and every building.  They had responded with extreme force, setting the sewers on fire to prevent the defenders from using them to sneak around underground, while they used heavy weapons to shell buildings housing defenders.  They hadn’t noticed Bauer yet…and he was determined that they never would, until it was too late.  “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

A group of Russian infantrymen advanced slowly, with care; they had learned too much about German ingenuity when it came to booby traps.  A handful of tanks had seemed a great find, until they had discovered the grenades that had been rigged up to explode and detonate the mining explosives that had been concealed within the tanks.  Bauer didn’t care about them; all he cared about was the Russian officer one of his intelligence people was almost sure was nearby.  The Russians were using their own radio net, but they had several officers who seemed to be almost competing to reach the centre of Berlin first, instead of cooperating.

Bauer wasn’t complaining, of course; enemy infighting only made his task easier.

The sound of aircraft echoed overhead and he cringed, despite himself.  He had rigged up a Claymore to prevent anyone coming up to trap him, but an aircraft could see him from high above.  The aircraft, whoever it belonged to, didn’t come close; it was fighting for its life in the skies above Berlin.  Years after the Berlin Blockade, Germany was once again trying to keep its capital city intact…and the Russians were the enemy, again.  Bauer was determined that, whatever happened, the people who had allowed the defences to weaken would pay for their mistakes.  The happy memory of the lynching of one of the surviving Green politicians made him smile.

There!  The Russian wore a uniform that wasn’t that conspicuous, but he had an air of command that was unmistakable.  Officers never wore proper uniforms where there was a risk of a sniper, but it was much harder to disguise the air of command that the officer wore, or how the others treated him.  An officer would never be just one of the boys.  He peered at him through the scope and smiled thinly; the Russian was very pale and seemed almost to be sweating in the heat.

“Goodbye,” he muttered, and squeezed the trigger.  The rifle jerked in his hand; it had been rigged to emit no flash or puff of smoke, it barely emitted a noise.  The Russian jerked once and fell to the ground as the round passed through his head; the soldiers with him threw themselves away, looking for the source of the shot.  Bauer lay very still, wondering if he would be seen, or if they wouldn’t be able to find him.  Moments passed…and no hail of bullets leapt up towards him.

Idiots, he thought, and rolled away from the edge of the roof.  His people had prepared the building as best as they could; it had once been part of a much larger centre, and despite the Russian shellfire, enough of it remained intact to allow him to make his escape.  He was halfway over the roof when he heard the helicopter; he closed his eyes as the Russian helicopter floated over the city, heading towards him.  He had just about made his peace with himself before the helicopter headed down and vanished among the buildings.

He blinked.  “What?”

For a crazy moment, he thought it was a trap, and then he wondered why the Russians would even need to bother trapping him.  Before he could wonder why they had been so quick to get out of the air, there was a blinding flash behind him.  Moments later, the shockwave of the first nuclear detonation struck…

Chapter Fifty-Two: The Last Roll of the Dice, Take Five

Frontlines, Germany

“NUCFLASH,” an officer snapped.  “We have a fucking NUCFLASH!”

The display had automatically prioritised the location of the nuclear detonations.  General Geoffrey Bradford Wilkinson watched in horror as seven tactical nuclear warheads exploded in quick succession, detonating over the front lines.  The display kept updating, revealing units that had been caught in the blasts and roasted with super-hot nuclear fire.  Nukes were something of an unknown factor in tactical combat, but everyone exploded within the blast range was likely to be dead or wishing they were.

“Fuck,” he snapped.  Just for a moment, his mind tried to edge away from the problem.  Trautman had had nuclear release authority, but he didn’t; the Europeans had insisted.  There wasn’t time for passing the question up the chain of command; by the time the politicians had stopped arguing, they would have been caught and shot by the Russian soldiers as they marched into Paris.  The President would certainly authorise retaliation, but only at the cost of a massive political backlash, one that might bring the NATO government down.

Trautman’s authority had led to him having the permission to fire the nukes without reference to higher authority.  “Get me Colonel Groves,” he snapped.  The Russians had used shells, not missiles; shells were almost impossible to shoot down with anything less than Metalstorm, and using Metalstorm would make it almost impossible to shoot at anything else as the launchers ran out of shells.  Metalstorm units burned up their ammunition quickly and there was no way to tell if the Russians had fired a tactical nuke or a conventional shell.  “I need to talk to him, stat!”

“I have several dozen distress calls and some calls from armoured units,” Colonel Henri Guichy said.  “They’re intact, those that weren’t directly under the blast, but many of them have been damaged.  The weapons weren’t that radioactive, but there’s a lot of infantrymen caught within the blast and they’re dead or seriously injured.”

“Get an NBC team out to each of the blast sites,” Wilkinson snapped.  The US Army and the British had trained for WMD attacks, but he couldn’t remember what the French and Germans had done.  He would have been astonished if the Spanish or Italians had a WMD-trained team, but stranger things had happened; they would need as much help as they could get.  “Put out a call for support units trained for such emergences and get them pushed forward now.  Who’s in command?”

Guichy’s hands were flying over his terminal.  The EMP pulses would have inflicted some damage; the entire network was supposed to be shielded, but Wilkinson knew that one single flaw and entire tanks might have been immobilised.  A command tank had additional sensors that might have been damaged or disabled by the blasts, or worse; the commanders might have been killed or blinded.

“Captain Andrew Parker-Smith, 1st British Armoured Division, seems to be the senior surviving officer in command in the salient,” Guichy said.  Wilkinson felt his blood temperature fall still further.  A mere Captain?  Just how many men had been killed, or had been rendered unable to communicate, or…his mind refused to grasp the problem; just how bad had it been?  “He’s trying to get a scratch response together, but he’s hampered…”

“Tell him that he has a battlefield promotion to whatever rank he needs,” Wilkinson snapped.  There wasn’t time for proper procedure.  “Tell him to get together whatever active units he can and get ready to meet a Russian offensive.”  He cursed; the Russians had been massing in the confident expectation of having a hole blown open through the enemy lines.  There was no time to waste.  “Get me the…”

“NUCFLASH,” a controller shouted.  “Target; Hamburg!”

Wilkinson gaped at him.  Hamburg was hardly a military target, even if it was the part-time home of the German Government after Berlin had almost fallen.  Had the Russians targeted it through pure malice, or was it a warning, or…just for a moment, he wondered if the Russians had lost control of their own nuclear weapons.  What were they thinking…?

There wasn't time to worry.  “Get me Colonel Groves,” he repeated.  The line cracked and hissed, but he found himself looking into the face of the colonel anyway; the Russian strikes had damaged part of the network.  The shockwave alone would have been dangerous to the aircraft fighting in the skies high above, but the link to EUROAIR was down and there was no time to worry anyway.  “Colonel, report your status?”

“The birds are ready to launch,” Colonel Groves said.  “We just received permission from the President to fire at your command.”

Wilkinson blinked, and then looked down at his command terminal; it was informing him that he had been sent FLASH traffic, direct from America.  “Good,” he said, checking the display.  “I want you to target the Russian forces massing…here, here, and here.  It is important that those forces be neutralised as quickly as possible.  I also want a long-range strike on the Russian command bunker, at once; a tactical mining nuke, understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Groves said.  They would be skipping dozens of little security measures just to get the weapons launched as soon as possible.  “What about Hamburg?”

Wilkinson stared at him.  “What about Hamburg?”

“Sir, the bastards hit a city packed with refugees from Poland and East Germany,” Groves protested.  “Shouldn’t we target one of their cities to extract revenge?”

The temptation was overwhelming.  “No,” Wilkinson said finally.  Striking a city was a political decision, not a military one…and, despite himself, he could see no possible city target that would actually be helpful when it was struck.  “I want you to concentrate on the military targets I have ordered, and inform me when they have been struck.”

He cursed as he tried to think.  The Russians would be moving in for the kill, driving their tanks through a radioactive wasteland, and they wouldn’t stop for anything.  His only hope was to use his own nukes to prevent them from reaching his people, or else the Russians might just pull off a victory that only mass use of tactical nuclear weapons could avert.  If that happened…

If that happened, the world itself might go up in flames.

***
The blast wave struck the Eurotank before any of the crew could realise that anything had happened.  It picked the tank up and tossed it several meters, rolling over and over before it came to a halt, somehow on its treads.  Captain Guntar Markus had only a second to think before his head cracked into the side of the tank; the driver was less lucky and slammed his head into the keyboard.  He heard the gunner scream, moments before a stream of blood started to patter down from his position.

“What,” he said, trying to force his mind to think.  The flaring pain in his head was almost making it impossible; he noticed with faint concern that half of the displays had gone off and the remainder were blinking up big red warnings.  It took him nearly five minutes, thinking through the pain, to realise that that was bad.  “Peters, get the restart cycle started.”

“Yes, sir,” the driver said.  “What about…”

He pointed up towards the gunner.  Markus risked unbuckling himself and started to climb up into the gunner’s position, only to see a long stick protruding into the gunner’s eye.  It took him a moment to realise that the gunner was dead, killed by something that had punched into his brain.  The tank’s engine had automatically shut down to prevent a fire; he heard it trying to restart as the driver tried frantically to restart the tank.  Whatever had hit them had been bad…

“He’s dead,” he said.  He reached up and closed the one remaining eye.  They had fought through the entire war together; now…they had always expected to die together, but the driver and himself would end up with a new gunner when they marched into Russia.  The thought reminded him; the Russians might be coming at them, right at the moment when they were at their most vulnerable.  “Anything?”

The tanks engines hiccupped again and roared into life; some of the displays came back to life.  Half of the network seemed to be down completely – it hadn’t been as bad as it had been when they were in Poland – and the other half seemed to be damaged, but it was enough to get some information from the servers.  There had been a nuclear strike, more than one, and tactical nukes had fallen all around them.  Only a handful of tanks seemed to be operating at anything like optimal levels, and they were bound to be overwhelmed by the Russians when they finally came to get them.  Markus forgot his scruples and took a heavy doze of painkiller; he needed his thoughts clear.

“My God,” the driver breathed.  “They tore the place apart…”

Markus peered through the tank’s sensors.  Some of the sensors had been destroyed, but enough remained for them to gaze out upon a scene from hell.  The German countryside had been torn apart by the blasts; fires were burning everywhere.  The remains of a tank division lay scattered all around them, burned and charred bodies lay everywhere.  Here and there, a handful of burned soldiers waved feebly…and they hadn’t even been at Ground Zero.  The computer display was updating slowly, reporting that a British officer had been given local command; Markus wondered bitterly what he intended to work with.  His tank no longer had a gunner; he would have been astonished if all of the systems still worked perfectly after the beating they’d just taken.  Self-diagnostics scrolled up in front of him, reporting that they were badly damaged, worse than he had dared hope.

The nukes had disrupted communication, but many more had survived the attack, in bunkers, for example.  The nukes hadn’t left much radiation; he would be fairly safe inside the tank, but some of the NBC teams, already on their way, would be undertaking great risks, just to try to save as many lives as they could.  He was aware, now, that the team wouldn’t drop dead in the radioactivity, but they would still be taking years off their lives as they worked to save as many lives as they could…

There were no longer any audio sensors on the outside of the tank, but he could see the weak forms of a handful of infantrymen, dying slowly in terrible pain.  Ignoring questions from the driver, he took control of the machine guns and realised in relief that one of them was still working.  It was the work of a moment to put the soldiers out of their misery.

“Sir…”

“Shut up,” Markus said savagely.  He knew that he might be court-martialled for the mercy killing and no longer cared.  “Get us moving forward, slowly, if we can.  We’re going to be needed when the Russians come to kill us.”

The tank moved badly, speaking of damage that the internal systems couldn’t locate, perhaps because the self-diagnostic systems themselves were damaged.  Unable to control its treads, it lurched slightly from side to side; the driver fought to control it as they moved onwards.  Markus attempted to remove the gunner’s body – there was no way that he was going to dump it outside the tank – and watched as other units reported in to the British officer who was trying to mount a defence.  There had been over two thousand tanks along the front lines; it looked as if nearly a third of them had been knocked out completely, or at least had been badly damaged.

Markus didn’t care any longer, not after a damning message had appeared on the network.  Some censor hadn’t been paying attention, clearly; the report should have been hidden from the German soldiers, at least.  Hamburg, his Hamburg, had been struck by a Russian nuclear weapon…and it might have killed his family and his old friends.  What was left for him now?

Anneliese, he thought.  She was all he had left.

***
Yuri kept his head down as the flashes of light flared in the distance.  Like the remainder of his detachment, the young infantryman had been briefed on avoiding the effects of nuclear weapons; remaining low behind a solid cover would work wondered at avoiding the effects of any blast, unless it was right on top of him.  The FSB had confidently informed them all that there was no chance that the Americans would unleash nuclear weapons of their own, and the brand-new anti-radiation drugs they had all taken would protect them from the radiation of the weapons that the Russians themselves have unleashed.  He clasped his rifle tightly; the entire force had been warned that they had to move quickly before the Americans moved to seal off the pocket again…

The whistle blew.  Yuri hefted his gun and started to run west, followed by hundreds of other Russian infantrymen and tanks.  The tanks surged forwards, overtaking the infantry as they headed into the torn and destroyed land; infantrymen didn’t get in the way of tanks if they knew what was good for them.  The scene was a scene from his nightmares; first Russian and enemy forces had fought over the land, and then a nuclear blast had knocked down everything that was left after the fighting had paused.  The German countryside was burning brightly; it seemed that everything that could catch fire had caught fire.  There was no sign of any opposition…

He saw the rocket before he heard it; the rocket flared overhead, heading east.  He wondered, just for a moment, if some survivors were trying to fight…before the rocket detonated.  There was a single moment of white light, which grew rapidly to overwhelming proportions…and then the shockwave struck.  Yuri was simultaneously blinded, eradicated, and blown to tiny pieces.  No one would ever know what had happened to him as the first American tactical nuke detonated over the Russian lines.

***
“We have hit the targets nine times out of ten,” Major Vladimir Ivanov reported grimly.  It was the single miss that worried him, a result of depending upon a long-range rocket rather than shellfire to deliver the weapon; they hadn’t intended to hit Hamburg hard with a nuclear device.  The city wasn't completely destroyed, but somehow Ivanov was sure that that wouldn’t matter to the Allies.  A Russian city would be hit, before too long; he was as sure of that as he was sure of his own name.  “Sir…”

The ground shook violently.  “What was that?”  Socrov demanded.  “Who’s attacking us here?”

Ivanov checked the display.  “The Americans have struck back,” he said.  He wasn't particularly surprised; he had expected that much.  The FSB might have sworn blind that politics would have prevented the Americans from striking back, but he had expected that sheer desperation would drive the Americans into hitting the Russian soldiers, at least, even before Hamburg had been struck.  “At least four nuclear strikes, all of them on the forces massing for the breakthrough.”

Socrov stared at him.  Ivanov saw naked desperation in his eyes.  “Order the troops to advance anyway,” he snapped.  “We must have that victory!”

Ivanov took a breath.  “Sir, the command lines have been snapped,” he said, as calmly as he could.  Russian combat information and control technology was nowhere near as capable as American technology…and he was sure that the units that had been attacked had been, at the very least, badly hurt.  “We cannot issue orders to the units that have been hit, and they have been hit with nuclear weapons, which means that they will be unable to carry out the orders, if we manage to get them through to the units…”

“The STAVKA wants a victory,” Socrov snapped.  “I order you to order them to advance.”

“I can’t,” Ivanov protested, mentally kissing his career goodbye.  It would be the penal units for him after this; he wouldn’t be the first senior officer sent into the units to redeem himself or die trying.  A month in the penal units…he would have almost have preferred a lifetime sentence to Siberia, or perhaps to the massive factories in the Urals.  “Sir, we cannot…”

An alarm sounded, too late.  “What’s that?”  Socrov demanded, his face going even paler than was its wont.  “Major, I command you…”

“That is the noise of the end of the world,” Ivanov said.  The alarm was warning the bunker of an American missile strike, one that couldn’t be shot down after the effects of the nuclear exchange.  “Goodbye, sir.”

The American weapon had been designed to dig terrorists out of mountain fortresses like Tora Bora, in Afghanistan.  It was a nuclear boring warhead, designed to detonate underground and literally melt its way through some of the world’s deepest and darkest caves, where even a conventional MOAB would be useless.  It detonated…and a wave of pure heat melted the ground all the way down to the bunker, killing the occupants before they had a chance to react or even attempt to escape.  The Russian chain of command had been snapped.

Chapter Fifty-Three: Aftermath

Near Dortmund, Germany

“She’s definitely an Indian deep-cover agent, sir,” the interrogator said.  He carefully snapped off a set of plastic gloves, ignoring the faintly disgusted look that David Simmons shot him, and smiled thinly.  “Not Russian; Indian.”

Simmons gazed through the one-way glass and felt sick.  The Prisoner Restraint Device had been designed by someone called Erika Yupp, apparently as a bondage toy.  It hadn’t taken the CIA and a number of other security services long to realise that it had other uses, not least in restraining and securing prisoners who might have the capability and the motivation to kill themselves before they could be interrogated.  It was one example of American ingenuity, he felt, that should never have been allowed to have been shared with the rest of the world.  It was nothing to be proud of.

Stripped naked, Captain Sameena Hussian lay on the device like a woman waiting for her rapist, her arms and legs spread and fixed firmly in the shape of a cross.  Her hands, feet, chest and neck were firmly secured by straps, holding her down, while a suction tube had been affixed to her crotch.  A single IV line was attached to one of her arms, pumping in nutrients to keep her alive and drugs to keep her talkative; Mistress Yupp had apparently used it to keep men with a bondage fetish tied up for weeks, perhaps even months.  Looking down at the Indian spy, Simmons wondered, grimly, if the search for ways to gain information from unwilling sources had finally gone too far.

“We have to go somewhere else,” he said firmly.  Looking down at the helpless girl was disgusting, no matter how much she deserved it; he had never been into bondage.  “Find us a private room, now.”

The interrogator looked at his eyes and didn’t argue, leading the way into a small conference room.  It looked depressingly normal, with no trace of the facilities for holding unwilling suspects that were housed elsewhere in the building; Simmons felt enough relief to find and drink a glass of water.  The interrogator’s terminal bleeped and he checked it, then looked relieved; Simmons knew that he didn’t want to be alone in the same room as him.

“General Wilkinson, General Rolande and Colonel Guichy are just coming in now,” the interrogator said.  He hadn’t been introduced and Simmons suspected that he liked it that way; there were more than a few terror suspects who would have loved to get their hands on him.  “I suggest that we wait for them before we proceed.”

Summons shrugged.  It was a week after the nuclear weapons had been used on their first European battleground…and the world still hadn’t recovered.  Nearly twenty-two weapons had been used, in the end; thousands of lives had been lost, mainly soldiers.  Hamburg had had a bigger-than-normal population and all of them were dead, heavily injured, lightly injured, or scared to death.  The entire world was terrified; Simmons had heard that there had even been riots in America and Britain, people expecting that they would be the next to die in atomic fire.  Hamburg, the first nuclear attack on a city in the western world, had focused more than a few minds.

And the Russians…?  No one knew for sure what they were thinking, or their fellows in the Pact, for that matter.  Japan and Turkey had joined the war, now that the Allies had been able to forge security arrangements and economic support; the Japanese might be already regretting it with the nuclear exchange.  What were the Russians thinking?  No one knew; their attack had failed, at a very heavy cost.  What were they planning now?

Simmons had seen the plans from the Joint Chiefs.  An American carrier was already in the Black Sea, flying missions against Russian targets and preparing to provide support to the EUROFOR soldiers and Ukraine nationalists in the Ukraine.  American Marines could seize the Russian bases and end the submarine threat in the Mediterranean; once that was done, Allied soldiers would throw the Indians out of Iran…and then march onwards to India.  Entire new weapons systems were being produced now; the Pact would not be able to keep up.

It wouldn’t be long before the Chinese forces in Darwin were forced to surrender…

“Mr Simmons,” Wilkinson said, pulling him out of his thoughts.  The General looked as if he had aged a hundred years in the space of a day; he walked as if he was haggard and worn.  “It’s good to see you again.”

Simmons nodded.  “For the moment, you have been confirmed as temporary SACEUR,” he said.  The decision had been easier than the President had expected, but it hadn’t quite sunk in, yet, that it had been Wilkinson who had picked the targets for the return strike on Russia.  Large parts of Germany had been touched by the heat of the sun and the Germans were still shocked.  “Once General Trautman returns to duty, you will probably end up as his second again.”

Wilkinson didn’t argue.  “We were lucky, I guess, that she didn’t actually kill him,” he said.  “What happened, precisely?”

Simmons nodded at the interrogator.  “I have performed my duty and interrogated her thoroughly,” the interrogator said.  Simmons caught the hint of disgust on the French General’s face and wondered what she thought had been happening.  “I have managed to extract a great deal of information from her, more, perhaps, that she realises.  Owing to the tiny number of people who actually know what happened, it might be possible to continue to use her to feed false information back to the Indians, but they may regard it with some suspicion.”

He paused.  “She is – was – a deep-cover agent, rather than an outright assassin, a fact for which we should all be grateful,” he continued.  “Apparently, her extended family, which has strong links with India and several high British politicians, has a different family business from the one that everyone knows about.  They’re spies, plain and simple; at a rough guess, nearly all of the members of the family in Britain are spies, who generally go back to India for their marriage partners.  As members of one of the most extreme right-wing groups in India, their choices are limited.  Naturally…”

“They marry other spies,” Wilkinson snapped.  Simmons nodded in agreement; the scale of the activity was astonishing.  There were other cases of entire families of spies, but most of them had been communists, rather than Hindus.  “Get on with it.”

The interrogator shrugged.  “The Indians sent her grandfather over to Britain with a flipping great wodge of cash, to quote the lady,” he said.  “As he had an industrious turn of mind, he had no problem in founding a chain of import/export stores and built an entire business empire.  The rising demand for Indian-specific food, such as food for Muslims, gave his business a boost; we may have located a link in the chain that leads to the insurgency in France.  His shipping fleet certainly smuggled some weapons into France; they have an entire office in Algeria…

“Anyway, Sameena herself was born in Britain, and was pushed into a military career,” he continued.  “She may have had some help from a few of her dad’s tame MPs; by this point, her grandfather had passed away and her father was running the family business.  A handful of nieces were married off to people of influence; she herself hadn’t wanted to pose as someone’s wife and went into the military.  The Brits wouldn’t let her into Military Intelligence, as there were tensions with the Pact at the time; she was moved into supply instead.  She…she transferred to EUROFOR, apparently at the orders of her father, and was the spy who provided much of the information that the Russians used to target Poland and Germany.”

Guichy shook his head slowly.  “Bitch,” he said calmly.  “What are we going to do with her?”

Simmons held up a hand.  “Let him finish first,” he said.   He didn’t want to know, but knew that he had no choice, but to listen.  “We may as well know the worst.”

The interrogator nodded his thanks.  “The Russians were planning their attack for quite some time,” he said.  “The Indians must have told them that they had an agent who was very close to Trautman and they thought something like “hey, we could get him out of the picture before the fighting begins” and asked the Indians to see to it.  She was…reluctant, but apparently her father used threats and promises to make her comply, overlooking the fact that she only did firearms basic in the UK.  She is many things, but she is not a trained commando.  They wanted her to smuggle in a real commando, but that…”

“Would have been impossible,” Guichy said.  The fury in his voice was chilling.  He had been Trautman’s loyal aide, Simmons remembered; half the population of Europe thought that Trautman could walk on water.  “Give her to some of the survivors of Hamburg; let them take their revenge on her!”

“Quiet,” Florette said sharply.  The Frenchwoman stared at the interrogator.  “Is any of this…legal?”

The interrogator looked uncomfortable.  “Under the Interrogation Protocols, as written in 2009 by NATO and reconfirmed by the European Military Commission five months ago, we are legally permitted to use any methods required, from drugs to outright torture, to gain information from a suspect in wartime,” he said.  “The Protocols make no allowances for anyone who is known to be guilty of something and there was no doubt at all in this case.  She was found with the gun in her hand, after all; legally, we can do anything we like to her.”

“I seem to recall that there were issues surrounding those Protocols before the three current senior leaders of Europe signed them into power,” Florette said wryly.  “Will all of this stand up in a military court?”

“The sentence has already been passed,” Simmons said, before anyone else could speak.  “The Chancellor of Germany was most…unhappy about what happened because of her, and the British weren’t happy either.  She will be drained of everything MI5 needs to track down and arrest each and every last member of her family, and then she, along with the captured Russian commandos who wore no uniforms, will be placed in front of a wall and shot.”

“I need a cigarette,” General Wilkinson said suddenly.  Guichy passed him a box of French cigarettes without comment.  “So, what now?”

Simmons smiled thinly.  “I have been discussing the matter with the President,” he said.  “One thing seems fairly certain; the Russian Army in Europe is not going to be capable of taking the offensive anytime soon.  The Chinese Navy – the long-winded People’s Liberation Army Navy – has been shattered, along with most of the Indian Navy.  It won’t be long before the Chinese are cleared out of Indonesia and Australia and who knows?  They might even have a rebellion in the rear after what we did to them in one of their most restive lands.

“The President is determined,” he continued.  “The new units are only just starting to come on line, but we have finally licked most of our production problems.  Give us a month or two, and we will have reinforced Europe, Iraq and even Japan to the point where we can finally take the offensive against the Pact…and end the war, once and for all.”

Wilkinson lifted a single eyebrow.  “There will be the danger of a Russian winter,” he reminded him.  “I trust that the Joint Chiefs haven’t forgotten that?”

“They don’t forget things like that,” Simmons assured him.  “The priority will be to crush the Russians first, and then take the war to the heart of China and India.”

“I see,” Wilkinson said.  “What happens if the Russians take the nuclear war all the way?”

Simmons said nothing.

Epilogue

When the knock on the door came, Marya Jadwiga knew who it was before the door burst open, rifle butts knocking the thin door down before she could even get up from her chair.  The seven Russians poured into the room, their eyes scanning the surroundings as if they expected her to be hiding an entire team of soldiers or bodyguards behind the chairs.  She distantly heard Melania Kazimiera, her sister, scream as the Russian leader grabbed Marya from her chair and hauled her to her feet, pushing her hard against the wall.  It was a matter of moments before her hands were firmly handcuffed and she was forced to her knees.

The Russian leader, a man with a wicked scar running down the side of his face, glared down at her.  At that moment, she saw her fate in his eyes and cringed, knowing what the Russians did to prisoners.  He wore no mask, nothing to suggest that he was ashamed or even scared of future retribution; his men had handcuffed Melania and even her two children, forcing the children to kneel on the floor.  Melania’s eyes were wide with shock; she gazed accusingly at Marya, as if she had brought this on the entire family.

“Marya Wiśniewski?”

It took Marya a moment to remember that that was her false name.  “Yes,” she said.  “That’s my…”

The Russian slapped her, hard, sending her sprawling to the floor.  She tasted blood on her tongue and felt the Russian grabbing hold of her by her handcuffs, lifting her back to her feet.  One of her teeth felt loose; she hoped in a moment of irrationality that it would get free and choke her before the Russians started having their fun.  One of Melania’s daughters had begun to cry and a Russian placed his hand firmly over her mouth until she started to cough, before letting her go.

“You are not Marya Wiśniewski,” the Russian stated.  Marya’s face betrayed her before she could control it.  “You are a reporter from GNN, a woman who was ordered, along with the other reporters in the city, to report” – he smiled at the weak pun – “to the occupation authorities as soon as we had secured the city.  Did you come?”

A hand reached inside her blouse and tore it away.  “No,” he continued, as he played roughly with her nipple.  “Instead, you worked with the underground and recorded the confession of that fat fool before you killed him; did you not think that we would perform a full DNA scan of the surrounding office?”  He laughed at her as he twisted her nipple hard enough to make her scream.  “Imagine our surprise when it turned out that we knew who had left some of the DNA in the room.  Imagine what we felt, eh?”

He drew a knife and Marya cringed away as he held it to her neck, and then sliced her belt away, tearing her jeans and panties with one savage tug.  Two of his men were doing the same to Melania; one of the others were eyeing her oldest daughter with interest.  Marya felt his rough hands grasping her and all she could think of was the daughter, barely approaching her teens…

“No,” she pleaded.  “Don’t hurt them; I’ll do anything…”

His voice was very close to her ear as he roughly pressed her against the wall.  He felt him unzipping his pants and stepping up behind her, she felt his hardness pressed against her rear.  She had only moments now…and there was nothing she could do; he was going to take her as he pleased, and then his men would do what they pleased, and then, if they were feeling merciful, they would kill her.  Somehow, she didn’t think that they were feeling merciful.

“Yes,” he agreed.  His fingers were forcing her legs apart; he pinched her when she tried to keep them closed.  “You will.”

When he was finished, and his men were finished, they dragged her away, leaving her sister and her children behind, trapped and helpless.  The children were screaming; the leader unhooked a grenade from his belt and tossed it into the room, as calmly as anything.  Marya had only a moment to realise what had happened…and then her sister and her nieces were blown to pieces, while the Russians carried her, beaten, raped, and broken, to whatever fate they had in mind for her.

The torment of war was not over yet.

The Third World War Will Reach It’s
Apocalyptic Conclusion In
‘Last Man Standing’
Coming Soon!