ARMAGEDDON'S SONG (Volume 3) 'Fight Through' (24 page)

“I have not met anyone who was directly involved in
the fighting yet, and so I would like to speak to this young man about his
experiences…and I am after all the Commander-in-Chief so I can do stuff like
that, and you as a minion should obey without question and back away to the
door, bowing as you go to see it is done.”

Terry smiled.

“I thought the bowing minion thing was the reason we
threw off the yoke of imperialism?”

“I thought it was because we didn’t want to pay for
the war against Napoleon?”

“I’m pretty sure bowing and scraping played a big
part, Mr President.”

The President dismissed him with a wave of the hand.
“Whatever.”

His Secret Service Agent was stood inside the door,
hands crossed in front and seemingly taking no interest in the goings on of
government.

“Mike?”

“Yes, Mr President?”

“Could you give us a moment; I want a private word
with General Shaw.”

“Certainly Mr President, I will be right outside.”

The doors closed, shutting them off from the outside
world for a while.

“That was a nice thing you did just then, Mr
President.”
Moving his folder into the centre of the table
in front of him, the President looked back at Henry.

“Why, because I
didn’t
want Mike to witness what I am about to say?”

Henry shook his head.

“No sir, keeping that young 82
^nd
man, Beckett, away from Germany when the Reds hit his unit.”

“I thought you believed that everyone should do their
share, no matter what their status in life, General?”

Henry had been fairly sure the showdown couldn’t be far
off when he had read the Washington Post three days ago. It had been a two day
old copy and although an article on a Congressman’s daughter starting boot camp
had been on page five, he had begun to look over his shoulder for a high
ranking military policeman, and an armed escort walking with purpose toward
him.

Fishing a copy of Das Spiegel from out of his
briefcase he slid it along the table to the President.

“Centre spread, Mr President.”

Opening the magazine the President read the article’s headline
and looked at the glossy photos of rich American’s enjoying the snow in Aspen.

The article was in German but President read aloud in
English.

“America’s rich and the beautiful aren’t training for
arctic warfare here, they are partying whilst members of their own countries
lowest wage brackets are dying on the firing line………….”

He closed the magazine and pushed it back.

“You have an issue with this, General Shaw?”

“I have several issues, Mr President. That one vies
for the top slot with my other pet bug bear.”

“Which is?”

“Millionaire football players, Mr
President.
Despite earning more in one year, than an entire team of
scientists trying to find the cure for cancer will ever see in their lives…they
strike for even more pay.”

Henry was toying with him and he knew it, but he
played along anyway.

“General, there is a football season and there is a
baseball season, but there are no biology or chemistry seasons that millions
will pay good money to watch, but if there was then we would have millionaire
test tube jockeys by the score. This is not an ideal world, or hadn’t you
noticed?”

Henry ignored the reply and continued on.

“My other ‘issue’ dates back to March 3
^rd
1863. President Lincoln signed the Federal Draft Act in the full knowledge that
there was a clause included that allowed the rich to dodge military service for
the sum of $300.” He fixed the President with an enquiring look.

“What’s the going price today Mr President?”

“You are being simplistic,
General
.”
He took a sip of coffee and Henry sat waiting.

“The reason we, as a democracy, win wars is because we
make a trade off. Some people, those with the means, build the weapons we need
and others use them. They keep the wheels turning by doing what it takes to
keep the unions sweet and looking the other way while corners are cut. If you
piss off those with means you don’t get the same cooperation.”

Henry countered, speaking very deliberately.

“Or the funds for the war chest come election time.”

“For your information General, I have goals just as
you have goals, and before I leave this office I would like to see full
education, education for one hundred per cent of the population, and the
poverty line knocked back another five per cent if not eliminated altogether.”
The President’s face was becoming flushed.

“I do not happen to like even a small fraction of the
people I have to deal with in order to get even the smallest worth of good out
of the shit I have to put my seal to.”

Henry sat back and regarded his commander in chief.

“You are the President, and you tell them that you
serve the will of the people and what’s good for the people is good for them.”
The President was shaking his head at the naivety of the man.

“Do you know how much it costs just to get nominated?
Let alone run an election campaign?”

Henry didn’t respond, but it wasn’t because he didn’t
know, it was because he didn’t care.

“It’s a fallacy that ‘just anyone can be President’.
You have to get sponsors to foot the bill, and they all have agenda’s.”

“Mr President, we have reached a point where a line
must be drawn. As the leader of democracy
you
are supposed to be the last word in integrity, yet you sold your soul to get
here.” It was the last straw for the President, who was well aware of the
situation without having to be reminded of it. His temper had been held in
check up to this point, but now it snapped as he swept away the mug before him
with a violent sweep of the hand.

“
God dammit
Henry
…
you’re a Marine, and you took an oath and so you do not ever
, ever
, play
politics while you are in that uniform!”
The coffee mug flew across the room, shattering against the wall.

With a bang the door flew open and Mike took a step
inside. Balanced on the balls of his feet and in a half crouch, he had his
jacket open and a hand on his firearm. He took in the room and then focused on
Henry, his eyes narrowing slightly. Behind him stood two Marines, their hands
were on the cocking levers of the M-16s they held.

Raising his hands the President calmed them.

“
It’s
okay, it’s okay…. just an
accident”
             

Henry had remained seated and calm, as unruffled by
the exhibition of temper as he was at being considered a physical threat to the
President in the eyes of the Secret Service.

When they had backed out of the room and the door was
again closed the President took a deep breath and allowed the anger to settle.

“My eldest son got his call up papers today. He turned
eighteen just three days ago and his mother
is
pissed
as hell at me. Added to which, some long standing friends of ours have stopped
calling her since their sons and daughters got call up papers, she’s pissed at
me about that as well.”

“I was eighteen when I first put this uniform on, Mr
President.”

“You volunteered and there wasn’t a war going on at
the time.”

“The advisors were in Vietnam and the writing was
already on the wall.” Henry sighed.

“If it’s any consolation, my father was entirely
pissed at me.”

“Why, he fought in Europe and again in Korea?”

“He had a saying Mr President, what do you call a
rifleman with a six figure checking account…a member of the National Guard. He
was done with fighting wars for the benefit of all, when a noticeable
percentage of the ‘all’ consistently failed to show up to do their bit. He
thought the time had come for the poor working stiffs to stay at home in front
of a TV and see how the rich boys handled it on their own for once. There were
a few times over there where I thought he had a point.” 

“You didn’t stop your son and daughter joining the
service, though?”

“They had the
chance
to listen to their fathers and their grandfathers’ experiences and views. It’s
a free country, and after listening they both entered following college.
Matthew joined the Corps and Natalie the Navy.”

The President knew this, but he
didn’t know where they both were.

“Matt’s the CO of VMA 223 aboard the
Bonhomme Richard,
and Natty is in Sydney too as TAO on the
Orange County
.”

“
Bonhomme
Richard
was damaged in the first
missile attack on Japan and was in dock at Sasebo when Japan surrendered wasn’t
she?” asked the President. “And
Orange
County
is providing air defence for
both the
Nimitz
and
Bonhomme
Richard
while the Aussies fix them up
in Woolloomooloo Navy Yard?”

“Yessir,
Bonhomme
Richard
is in the dry dock there and
they aren’t going anywhere until the rest of the
Nimitz
group arrives.”

Only part of the
Nimitz
combat group had sailed with the carrier, the
remainder were making their way with
Essex
or were stood out to sea as a
precaution.             

The President smiled, pleased with himself for remembering
weeks old briefing items despite the masses of information that flowed in
constantly for his eyes.

“Is your father still alive?”

“No sir, we lost him in ’92, a few months after my
mother passed away, but I think he was proud of the way his grandchildren
turned out.” Henry looked the President in the eye.

“My youngest is in the same draft as your son Mr
President; they are both going to Parris Island.”

The President opened his
folder and looked at the single sheet that lay within.
He stayed that way for a moment before closing the folder and standing.

“I think we are done for now, General.”

CHAPTER
4

2 miles north of Magdeburg.

Colonel Leo Lužar’s 43
^rd
Motor Rifle Regiment
led the way for the rest of the reconstituted Rzeszów Motor Rifle Division. It
wound its way past wrecked and burnt out fighting vehicles of all types. The
twisted, fire warped and shattered remains of aircraft, the fighters,
fighter-bombers and helicopters from both sides were evident in the green hues
of the colonel’s night viewing device. Multi-millions of the people’s roubles
and dollars reduced to scrap value where they had fallen. 

The
Rzeszów
Motor Rifle Division had been rebuilt from the remains of two other divisions
following its abortive attack on the British 3
^rd
Mechanised
Brigade.

Second Shock Army, to which they belonged, along with
Tenth Tank Army had been worn down by constant attacks upon NATO since the
start of the war. They had been reduced from seven divisions to just three, and
were no longer capable of the shock they were supposed to deliver.

Lužar’s 43
^rd
MRR had done better than the rest of the division by
actually getting across the river. Only the Mitterland Kanal had separated them
from the flesh and blood defenders, the US paratroopers and British guardsmen.

For the lack of bridging secti
ons the attack had failed, and that was the only
reason he had not been taken into the woods and shot in the back of the neck
with the other regimental commanders. His defence of the efforts by the
engineers to complete their task had saved another life, that of their
commander.

This time they were doing it differently, a battalion
of infantry had preceded them under the cover of heavy artillery pounding the
far bank with H.E and smoke. Both they and the light assault boats they had
dragged forward were co
ncealed amongst
the detritus of war, the armoured vehicles and ruined bridging equipment from
the past two attempts to cross at this spot.

This was familiar terrain for Lužar, his previous
attack had taken place three miles south of this point, and his job tonight was
similar, that of securing the far bank whilst the first ribbon bridge was put
across. The perimeter would be extended until the entire division had crossed
and the Polish 9
^th
Division had achieved a similar goal to the south of
them. The Polish and the Hungarian Divisions were the door stoppers, they would
re-orientate, facing along the NATO line to the north and south, keeping the
breach open for Third and Sixth Shock Armies to pass through, followed by the
rest of their own formations before rolling NATO up from the flank.

Lu
žar had
deployed his regiment from road march five miles back, and it was now had the
tactical spacing between his vehicles to minimise damage from all but an MLRS
strike. He had been given assurances, once again, that NATO’s multi launch
rocket systems had been neutralised. Half a mile from the river he gave the
signal to the infantry who began their assault river crossing covered by a
renewed artillery barrage.

It was too far away for him to see the men dragging
the aluminium boats down the steeply sloping bank and seating the outboard
motors. Feeling extremely exposed the infantrymen attempted to offer the
smallest possible targets as they laboured, before entering the fragile craft
and pushing off towards the opposite bank.

At the halfway point each and every man was wondering
at point the defenders would unleash a withering storm of artillery followed by
small arms.

Colonel Lužar briefly changed frequencies to the Poles
command net. His Polish was limited, but good enough to note that there were no
conta
ct reports or calls for help being
put out. Always assuming that they had jumped off on schedule, at the same time
as the 43
^rd
Motor Rifle Regiment then the opposition they were
encountering was apparently light.

He turned back to his own net and as the river came
into sight he heard the infantry battalion’s commander reporting that they had
reached the far bank without loss. The
man
sounded anxious, as if he feared they had stepped into a trap that was going to
close at any moment.

“Where the hell has NATO
gone?”

“Colonel?”

Lužar had spoken aloud without realising, and he
looked down at his sergeant.

“Nothing, let us just keep alert, okay?”

Germany: Same time.

Two fierce air battles broke out over the skies of
Europe, one over NATO’s rear areas and the other over the Red Army’s.

The Red Air Force’s build up in the skies over the Czech/German
border was watched by Lt Col Ann-Marie Chan and her controllers orbiting above
the German countryside west of Bielefeld. Lt Col Chan and her squadron had
arrived at Geilenkirchen AFB whilst the wreckage was still being cleared. The
bodies had all been removed but there had still been blood stains on the
concrete of the dispersal they had been allotted and the dispersal’s former
occupant had lain where the bulldozers had left it, tens of millions of
dollars’ worth of scrap with its tail number still visible despite the fire
scarring.

Tonight she counted the regiments of strike aircraft
and their escorts and advised the AC to begin extending their orbit to the
northwest in preparation for repositioning.

The Soviet’s knew that 4
^th
Corps was on the move
and their sorties today would be at the road network and not at the docks.
There were more of them in the air this morning than had been over the past few
days but she wasn’t fretting. Popping a mint into her mouth she then sat
watching her screens and let her fingers softly drum on the surface of the
workstation and murmured to herself. 

“Come on boys, momma’s got a surprise for you.”

The moment that her screens indicated that the Soviet
strikes were inbound she scrambled German Tornado’s, Dutch, American and
Belgian F-16s to intercept, whilst at the same time starting several other
balls rolling.

The
Charles
De Gaulle’s
air wing had made a low
level run from the North Cape several hours previously. Keeping the coast of
Norway over the horizon and avoiding radar contact it had eventually turned to
enter the Kattegat and passed the small island of Anholt before landing at the
Swedish Air Force base of Angelholm-Barkakra, set beside the stormy waters of
the bay known as the Skalderviken.

Refuelled and carrying a heavier weapons load than
would have been possible to lift of the short deck of a carrier, they had sat
on the runway waiting for the signal to launch.

At Satenas to the north of them and at Malmo to the
south, the taxiways were lined with Swedish, Danish and Norwegian aircraft
configured for Wild Weasel and air-to-air interception.

Satenas
launched
first and the aircraft skimmed above rooftops on the journey south, being
joined enroute by the French at Angelholm-Barkakra and finally the wings from
Malmo. The multi-national force, one hundred and seven airframes strong,
crossed the coast and lost even more height as it headed for the shoreline
across the Baltic. Along the way the massed formation slimmed down as groups
broke off and headed for their own primary targets.

In the south of England an even more diverse force
took to the air and set course. Greek paratroopers rode in Danish C-130s, the
Turkish airborne brigade in its entirety were carried in French C-130s plus
their own Turkish built CN-235s and their ex-Luftwaffe C-160D Transall’s.
Spanish and Italian paratroopers were carried aloft in USAF C-141s whilst their
own C-130s carried pallets packed with their heavier gear. For the British this
was to be the first time since Suez that they would jump into action, although
both 1 and 2 Para had been fighting in the line as infantry until a week
before. The Territorial battalion, ‘4 Para’, had provided the replacements to
bring both battalions up to strength; much to the disgust of 3 Para’s CO who
had argued unsuccessfully for his own unit to be relieved in the line by the
Territorials and so be able to take part also. The two British battalions were
aboard RAF, USN and USAF C-130s which made the three battalions from the 82
^nd
and the Belgians the only countries who shared a common language with all their
aircrafts crews. The British and Americans are united in their beliefs that
other is speaking Martian.

RAF Tornado GR4s and Jaguar’s loaded for flak
suppression preceded the transport stream with USAF F-15s providing cover. USN
F/A-18s and F-14 Tomcats of the USS
Gerald
Ford’s
air wing rode shotgun for the
transport aircraft while their E-2C Hawkeyes provided the force with all seeing
eyes and the ability to provide ECM when the time came.

Ann-Marie blessed SACEUR for whatever strategy he had
used to pry loose the next group of assets. The attrition rate over the past
weeks had been frightening, and today she would have been left with only
helicopters and a newly arrived A-10 wing, operating with minimal fighter cover
to try and stem the tide of enemy armour pouring through the breach in the NATO
line.

The Indians were on the rampage and NATO ground forces
were circling the wagons.

In southern Europe at the foot of the Italian Alps,
the bulk of the cavalry were lifting off from Trento and Bergamo. The three
F-16 wings from Italy, Greece and Turkey took to the air, followed by four
squadrons of Turkish F-5As and venerable F-4E Phantoms. To the west of them
Spain’s F/A-18 wing formed up and headed north also for the first of two
rendezvous with tankers. None of the aircraft carried external fuel tanks;
their
hard points carried ordnance that
would be expended before they touched down on the tarmac of designated
airfields in France, Germany and the Low Countries.

Thick fog had settled upon the hill along with a fine
drizzle, which soaked the hessian strips of the ghillie suits the snipers wore.
Big Stef and Bill halted at a challenge from the battalion CP’s sentries,
holding their arms and weapons well clear of their bodies as they complied with
the requests made of them. Having answered the challenge correctly they
squeezed through the sandbags and soggy blankets to enter a dug-out that smelt
of damp earth, in the side of a steep sided gully that served as a shelter bay
and briefing room. Removing their Bergens they sat upon them as they awaited
Major Popham to brief them on their task of the day; however the next person to
enter was not the 2 i/c but the battalion padre. He wore the same combat clothing
as they did but no webbing and no camm cream on his skin either.

“Good morning boys, the 2 i/c sends his apologies and
he will be a few minutes yet.”

Stef knew the man fairly well, muttering a

“G’mornin’ Padre,” as he lowered himself onto a bench
made of empty ammunition boxes on the opposite side of the dugout to
themselves, Bill on the other hand gave a half nod and stared unseeing at the
earth wall opposite, lost in his own thoughts.

The padre had once been a colour sergeant in the Scots
Guards before something had happened to change his outlook on life. He had come
to the battalion as a captain in the Royal Army Chaplains department, and
usually he was a fairly normal kind of guy, but now and again a kind of
overbearing zeal seemed to come over him and he would seek out his spiritual
charges whether they wanted his counsel or not. In barracks it was not unusual
to see soldiers climbing out of windows to avoid him if he was seen entering
their accommodation block.

Their current situation as a unit had not been kept a
secret; the CO had not made light of it. They were within a whisker of losing
the war in Europe, but the remnants of the Guards regiment that had held
Hougoumont Farm, and the paratroopers who boasted Saint Mere l’Eglise amongst
their units past achievements were not used to running. All the same, the
recent loss of an entire platoon had hit both the Brits and Americans hard.
Colin Probert and his men
had been
acknowledged as pretty damn good soldiers and although no one could have been
expected to prevail against such odds as they had faced, there was a feeling
that if Probert’s platoon could be overrun then what chance did the rest have.
Since the over running of 1 Platoon the padre had been getting around the
positions, doing his job as he saw it, offering the services of his office to
bolster those that may need it.  

Bill was vaguely aware of Stef and the padre
conversing in low tones but it wasn’t until his partner gave him a dig in the
ribs that he realised the priest had addressed him.

“I was saying that I haven’t seen you at my services,
since you were attached to the battalion?”

Bill shook his head.

“I tend to catch up on sleep whenever we are back in
the battalion lines Padre…it’s nothing personal.”