After the enemy armour had withdrawn to the far bank of the Elbe, the fighting had tailed off to nothingness, and the enemy kept right on pulling back, abandoning its useless bridging equipment as it went.
A silence had fallen on the battlefield, and the defenders had slowly allowed themselves to relax, had dared to consider survival as a possibility once more.
The chemical weapons that the Hungarian Division had employed had dissipated, being of the non-persistent variety, so the American paratroopers and British Guardsmen had unmasked as they went about clearing up, repairing field defences and shepherding the wounded to the rear.
The 82nd’s RSM, Arnie Moore, had taken over the full duties of that role for the unit following the death of Barry Stone. Pat Reed and Jim Popham were stood on the shattered autobahn’s on-ramp, gazing about the battlefield when the RSM approached and handed them the butchers’ bill.
The stench of high explosives, burnt out vehicles and their human occupants, almost exclusively the enemies, was heavy in the air. The two officers read the tally of the dead, wounded and missing in action before handing it back with orders to send it with the sitrep up to brigade headquarters.
The losses had been far less than they had been at the Guards first defensive action, but the list bore the names of friends they would never see again.
“Nothing except a battle lost can be half as melancholy as a battle won,” muttered Jim Popham and Pat Reed raised an eyebrow. “Don’t look so surprised Colonel, even at the Virginia Military Academy we got force fed that stuff, don’t think that only Sandhurst cadet’s had to suffer the quotes of dead generals.”
“Actually I always thought Wellington was an insufferable snob and a cold fish.” Pat replied. “If I had to guess, I would say he only said it for effect because the ‘Gentlemen of The Times’ were in earshot.”
The double blasts of the demolition charges destroying the anchor posts of the incomplete ribbon bridge, did not even cause either soldier to blink, they were minute compared to what they had endured during the night.
Pat Reed gripped his webbing yoke and shrugged his equipment up higher onto his shoulders, to ease the strain before turning and heading back to the CP, wondering how long this lull would last before they again got into a fight with the Red Army forces.
Lt Col Reed was giving serious consideration to getting his head down for a couple of hours when he was summoned to the secure radio link with brigade HQ. He was on for ten minutes before removing the headset and handing it back to the signaller.
“Sarn’t Major Moore!”
The paratrooper came over from the far side of the CP. “Sir?”
Pat handed him the warning order he had just received; a Territorial Army unit, 1st Battalion, Wessex Regiment was enroute to take over the battalions current area of responsibility. The enemy had broken through and crossed the river in two sectors and the MSR had been cut. All company, battery and squadron commanders were required to attend an O Group in twenty minutes time. There was to be no move before 1 Wessex arrived, but then the battalion was to face west and perform an advance-to-contact with Russian airborne forces in the rear.
The Presidents’ latest location was virtually identical to the previous ones in décor and layout. Above them lay some of the wildest and most spectacular countryside on the continent, but the CEO of the United States had seen none of it. It had been night went the relocation had taken place, so he had grumbled
“Same bat time… same bat cave!” on arrival in his new ‘home’.
The President was ensconced with the heads of the nation’s intelligence community, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs was aware of the topic, and had a long session with the President before the meeting had taken place.
Whilst the future of Guillotine was being debated, Henry Shaw was now busy with his own staff in an office on the next level above the intelligence meeting. Aside from preparing his own briefing for the CEO, Henry had made another issue a matter of personal interest, and the atmosphere in the generals’ office was so cold that frost should have been forming on all the walls in the facility.
When the Military were eventually summoned, the CIA Director Terry Jones was the only spook still present in the room; the rest were the Presidents’ civilian war council. Waiting in the ante room were a few members of congress and the senate, flown in that morning, Henry saw them as he passed through and nodded to them curtly, because knowing someone and respecting them are not the same thing. All of that could wait for now though, there was going to be a showdown but in the meantime there was a war going badly for them, and that was going to take all of his attention.
“Henry, take a seat please, first of all let me get you up to speed with the problem in Scotland we discussed earlier.” The President gestured to the chair beside him.
“Unless the Brit lab identifies the remains on the tracks as being from someone other than that of Major Bedonavich, Guillotine goes ahead as planned,” the President informed him.
Terry Jones, sat opposite Henry was far from happy. The time scale of the incident near Kinloss made it very unlikely that the major could have been forced to reveal all he knew, if it was the Russians body on the line. If it wasn’t the major, then the team that had attacked the house could be well on the way to breaking him now.
Henry’s concern was equally for the mission’s outcome and for the personnel involved.
“Are we going to inform the boys and girls in Russia, of what went down today?”
The President shook his head.
“No General, they are on a high state of alert anyway, news like this will just serve to key them up unnecessarily… if Major Bedonavich died under that train, then we can presume the secret is safe.”
“And if he didn’t?”
“We say nothing… it is not as if we have a back-up plan Henry, we just have to hope that Miss Vorsoff gets the information, and they nuke the son of a bitch before the security forces over there can close in.”
Henry let out a long breath.
“Hell of a way to run a war.”
“Ain’t that the truth!” the Director agreed.
The President nodded to the Marine sentry and he opened the door to the anteroom, allowing the congressmen and senators to enter and seat themselves.
“On a personal note,” the President began. “I am very sad at the death of Scott Tafler. It is possible that two of the three people who are responsible for warning us in time of the Communist attack have now been murdered.” None of the newly arrived politicians had any idea as to who was being spoken of, and to be fair most would have cared a hell of a lot had they known, but others now showed well practised expressions, that they felt suited a sorrowful moment.
Henry Shaw wanted to puke but he himself did not show any of the distaste on his face as he gave his summary of the latest events in the war, but at the finish of the brief, one of those same professional politicians succeeded in stripping away that expression.
“General, I have to say… and I know I speak for all of my distinguished colleagues here with me today,” looking around at the other senators and congressmen.
“The Europeans have once again allowed the soviets to get subs into the Atlantic, they dropped the ball on day one and we had to pick it up, we warned them that the Sov’s were coming again… and still they fumbled and let them waltz right on through. We are getting pretty God damned sick of having to pull the fat from the fire because those guys aren’t pulling their weight!”
Henry leant forward and fixed the man with a look that was icy, completely at odds with the easy smile on his face. “Senator, first of all… what’s with all this WE shit?” but without waiting for a response he continued. “I hear that you are pretty handy with a rifle… did a lot of hunting in the late sixties and early seventies… am I right or am I wrong, but the deer up in Canada don’t shoot back, any more than ours do?” The senator had been in college during the early part of the Vietnam war, where he had been active in the anti-war movement, and even had a framed photograph on the wall of his den, a clipping from ‘Time’ of him pelting wounded American servicemen with animal faeces, at an airport when they arrived home from southeast Asia. He’d skipped north of the border after his finals, and failed to answer his call up papers. Contrary to the ‘self-made-man-and-man-of-the-ordinary-guy’ image that he tried to promote, Walt Rickham was born into money and privilege, and had never had to use his hands to earn a living. Right now he looked like a man going to seed, and trying hard to cover it by the wearing of expensive tailor made suits.