' The Longest Night ' & ' Crossing the Rubicon ': The Original Map Illustrated and Uncut Final Volume (Armageddon's Song) (27 page)

“Just because dog owners seem to take on certain physical similarities to their pets does not necessarily make them bad people.” Joseph Levi, his Chief Science Advisor, observed.

“It is the ‘necessarily’ bit that has me concerned” The President said with a frown, which gave over to a faint smile. “That’s why I don’t own a dog, Joseph.”

Elena Torneski had dyed her blonde hair the colour of chestnut and now wore it in the fashion of their own principle intelligence asset on
Operation Guillotine
.

“Now that we have agreed upon reopening diplomatic exchange via embassies and a return of pre-war media reporting norms, I can find out more about the new Premier but I cannot give any time frame for that data to be available.” Terry Jones put in. “I should, however, have a handle on why the order to the Red Army to cease hostilities took so long to implement.

The President now had another conferencing call waiting with Perry Letteridge and Barry Forsyth, the Australian and New Zealand Prime Ministers. That call would be followed by yet another online conference with the European leaders, including those whose nerve had failed them. As tempting as it was to cut them out of any future exchanges their armies’ men and women had blithely ignored orders to stand down and as such it would be inappropriate to tar them with the same brush as the elected leaderships of their nations.

The Axis partnership of the New Soviet Union and the People’s Republic of China was dissolved, and NATO could now bring all its forces to bear on the remaining theatre of operations, the Pacific.

“Ask General Shaw…” The President faltered, but then continued “I mean, General Carmine, to be ready for a full session on our situation in the Pacific, our surviving forces in Australia, next of kin notifications too for those who had been in Sydney, and his assessment on the condition of NATO’s European armies.” he instructed an aide before turning again to Terry Jones.

“Any word on Henry?”

The expression on Terry’s face was warning enough that no good news was coming on that front.

“Mr President, Jacqueline Shaw suffered a stroke, a big one, shortly after learning that Matthew and Natalie had been in Sydney. She is at Bob Wilson in San Diego and Henry is at her side.” Terry Jones did not add that Henry was also nursing a bottle. The President had enough to deal with at the moment.

“Prognosis?”

“The ‘Golden Hour’ was long gone before she was found, apparently.”

The Golden Hour was that small window in which doctors and surgeons could repair the damage without there being any lasting effects.   

The President closed his eyes for a moment, regretting the exchange that had soured his relationship with someone who had become an anchor of support.

“Thank you Mr Jones, and now I think we need to press on with the Australian and New Zealand Premiers.”

The Vormundberg.

After watching the destruction of the Red Army’s two point divisions the first ground units of 4 Corps had rolled into the view of the Vormundberg defenders. Moving immediately into the attack, the armoured cavalry had destroyed the forces still west of the rivers, those too slow to run away or surrender. The Red Army itself did not stop fighting until the mid-morning.

In the afternoon, the Supreme Allied Commander, Europe, General Pierre Allain, had arrived by helicopter accompanied by Alexander Baxter, the 4 Corps commander, and Major General David Hesher, commander of the ad hoc collection of units that had formed the last line of defence. They had landed on the top of the Vormundberg, on a freshly decontaminated acre where the still smoking wreckage of the final Soviet attack lay spread out before them. The Canadian summoned all the brigade and battalion level commanders, addressing them with little attempt at formality.

“You will be gratified to learn that my headquarters has been working tirelessly on your behalf for the past seventy two hours.” Pierre Allain informed them in earnest tones. “The finest military minds in the world were set a single task and it has now born fruit.” Although they were suffering fatigue he could see he had their interest.

“We have named you all ‘The International Division’.”

It took a moment to sink in, but the tired, and in some cases nearly exhausted warriors in their filthy, stained chemical warfare protection suits had been able to laugh.

“Gentlemen.” stated General Baxter on stepping forward to address Dave Hesher and his officers. “You are relieved.”

It had of course not been a simple matter of just folding their tents and departing. There were the wounded to treat, the few that had not succumbed to chemical agents due to loss of their protective clothing’s integrity. There were the dead and the missing to list, and the living to marshal up and organise, and all within a contaminated environment.

The dead were collected and gently laid out; their ID tags checked and double checked to confirm their identity in life, and their personal effects were then listed, bagged and tagged but not for onward transmission to next of kin. The bodies were bound for the final decontamination, a field crematorium, and the belongings to a furnace for closely supervised destruction, all having been exposed to the deadliest of chemical WMDs yet devised. Only their weapons and remaining ammunition were salvageable.

Captain Timothy Gilchrest was eventually found amongst the dead of 8 Platoon, and he had not gone meekly into the night. Beside his body were those of six members of the 23
rd
MRR that he had sent on ahead, right before a grenade had ended resistance from his trench.

Lance Corporal Steven Veneer and Guardsman Andy Troper joined the long line of those who had fought back desperately when 4 Company was being overrun. Shunned
by the 82
nd
Paratroopers of that company in life, the Coldstreamers now joined them on the hillside, silently waiting processing before being slipped into body bags and removed. Their Stinger launcher would be decontaminated and eventually put on display in the Sergeants and Warrant Officers Mess at Wellington Barracks; although it would never be established which man had used it as a club once their ammunition ran out.

Just three of the dead heroes amongst all the others, the remaining one thousand nine hundred and seven dead and forever missing of The International Division.

Paderborn Garrison, Germany.

Sunday 21
st
October, 0023hrs

Jim Popham’s men were no longer his in name only. Promoted in the field by General Hesher, his surviving men would form the core of a new battalion, the 111
th
Airborne Infantry. They accompanied 1CG to Alanbrooke Barracks, Paderborn, arriving after midnight and slept where they could find space.

Major Mark Venables led the last three serviceable vehicles of his squadron to the tank sheds where he and his crew fell asleep in their seats just minutes after shutting the engine down.

Pat had become very quiet after the fighting had ended, almost morose. He wanted to grieve for his son but the right time for that would be once he was reunited with Annabelle, who would probably not yet have been informed of their son Julian’s death.

Jim Popham found a bottle of scotch somewhere and sat with Pat in the first vacant bunk they found in the Officer’s Mess. His plan was to get Reed drunk and tie one on himself at the same time, but alcohol and exhaustion is not an ideal recipe for a drinking session and neither man was able to finish the first drink, sinking into a sound sleep instead.

At 0600hrs a sergeant from Garrison Headquarters was searching the corridors and rooms of the Officer’s Mess for Pat Reed, his torch eventually illuminating the name tag on the CO’s combat smock. Pat had fallen asleep fully clothed atop the bed.

Pat’s raised voice had awoken Jim Popham in the armchair where he had crashed, too tired to find anything more appropriate. He could have slept at the end of the runway at LAX and been as equally dead to the world. The Englishman’s fury though, had brought him to full wakefulness.

Red eyed and beside himself, Pat he was verbally venting his anger on the messenger, in the absence of the messages originator, whom he would happily have disembowelled with a blunt spoon. 

“No rest, not even fresh uniforms?” he roared. “I will swing for that bitch, so help me God!”

The men were roused, prodded and cajoled into wakefulness and then put to work. Twelve of the battalion’s Warriors and all three of A Squadron’s MBTs were stripped of all ammunition and working parties returned it to the magazines. The vehicles were then loaded onto tank transporters that were already waiting on the square along with 17 Logistical Transport Company’s Bedford 4 tonners.

The men of 1
st
Battalion Coldstream Guards and A Squadron of The Kings Royal Hussars lined up on the barracks square for the legal declaration. Empty magazines at their feet, webbing pouches open and personal weapons with their working parts held to the rear.

“I have no live rounds, empty cases or any other munitions in my possession, sir.” Was a verbal statement legally required by all seventy two remaining members of the guard’s battalion and twelve tank crewmen. The battalion attached, the REME, Royal Artillery and Army Catering Corps elements were not included in the movement order Pat had been handed.

“Ease springs!” commanded Pat Reed from their front when everyone’s pouches had been checked and weapons shown clear.

“Get aboard the transport and get as comfortable as you can, we have a long drive ahead of us.”

“This is one screwed up way to run an army, Pat.” Jim Popham said as they shook hands before Lt Col Reed climbed into the passenger side of the lead 4 tonner. The convoy moved off, taking the battalion back home to Wellington Barracks via a press event on Horse Guards Parade at a ridiculous hour, and all to be accomplished by a road march and ferry from Zeebrugge.

Bayswater, London: 0800hrs.

A frantic scramble by the government’s spin doctors in order to formulate a suitable statement had been followed by an even more frantic scramble to return to the capital and delive it. The reason for the rushed return had been the Royal Family arriving back in London within hours of the ceasefire in Europe being announced. That Her Majesty had beaten her government back to the city by over twenty four hours was a fact not lost on the media, or the public.

“This is simply intolerable and unacceptable!” snapped Danyella Foxten-Billings. “Who the hell do they think they are?”

“Just leave it dear, I am assured that a feeding frenzy involving certain other governments is about to begin and this rags headline will be merely wrapping someone’s fish and chips tomorrow, so come back to bed.” It was not by chance that the PM knew this. The defection from NATO by certain nations during its eleventh hour was about to become public knowledge because he had ordered the leak himself. It was a tried and tested tactic, giving the media a bigger bone to chew on. The government’s slow return to Westminster would indeed be soon forgotten.

Danyella though had the bit between her teeth.

“Like timid dormice the cabinet awaited the last echoes of gunfire to fade before emerging from cover.” She quoted indignantly. “I was visiting the troops…how dare they!”

“You were visiting
some
troops, and on Salisbury Plain, at that.” the Prime Minister corrected her. “It is not quite the same, and you must expect the press to notice these things. All of them and not just the ones you invite along.”

“Is it too much for one to expect a little support?” she snapped back, before tossing the newspaper aside in disgust.

A sour look marred her features at his words as they were obviously not what she had wanted to hear, so he was clearly not going to be enjoying her body again that day.

“Churchill won over the doubters by playing up to the services.” She replied, ignoring the central message of his words.

“Yes, well he was the nation’s leader, and that has a kudos all of its own.”

“I’m working on that.” she thought, although wisely keeping it to herself.

“You also need to kick a few doors in at the MOD and find out quite how half of NATO’s airborne forces took part in an operation that we in government knew nothing of, let alone authorised, and also managed to stage it out of our airfields.”

“Actually.” She replied. “I have already released a statement claiming ownership of the plan.”

His jaw dropped.

“Well if none of the other governments knew then no one else can claim otherwise, now can they?”

He was not ready to concede her the point, but if it worked then it would possibly be an election winning item. He said no more on the matter but he would get to the bottom of it himself, quietly of course.

He changed the subject as he dressed.

“How are things going with that dreadful little soldier of yours?”

She noted the tone of his voice, just as she had noted that he had now taken to wearing a condom when they were together.

“He is our star witness and the means to bring about a complete change in the forces. He requires special handling.” She reminded him, but immediately regretted the choice of words.