“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 82nd 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.”
The padre studied him for a moment before replying.
“Are you an agnostic young man, surely you have heard the word of the Lord?”
Stef had got to know Bill quite well, and knowing him as he did he gave another nudge by way of a warning, but groaned inwardly when it was ignored.
“No Padre, not personally.”
The gauntlet, as far as the padre was concerned, had been flung down. Using what he considered to be reasoned examples, he sought to put doubt into the snipers mind but found instead that Bill had long ago formed his own views on the subject of the established churches of all faiths on the planet.
“Don’t get me wrong padre, I believe in a Supreme Being creating the universe and I believe in good and evil, I just don’t happen to believe, or trust, the interpretation that humankind gives it. In case you had not noticed, we seem to be a bit shy of miracles around here”