Thus far Colonel Lužar had not seen a single enemy fighting vehicle and the only reaction to their presence had been several artillery strikes. Taking all things into account the resistance they had met had been pathetic, although the artillery had been highly accurate, and up to that time he had begun to wonder if they had killed all of NATOs brave young men and women, and the rest had run away.
To his right sat the charred remains of a BRDM infantry fighting vehicle. Flames still flickered in the molten rubber of what had been its tyres. An entire infantry section had perished with the vehicle and its crew, without so much as firing a single shot. It was just one of the eleven AFVs he had lost in that thirty minute attack, and the way the enemy fire had been corrected, to walk across fighting positions pointed to the presence of a spotter in close proximity.
Patrolling had discovered the spotter’s location in the ruins of a building only 300m in front of the colonel’s own position, but sloppy command and control by the infantry patrol’s commander had left an escape route open. His infantry came under effective automatic fire from the ruins, which allowed the enemy troops to slip away in pairs until only a single weapon remained. Frustrated by the lack of aggression shown by his infantry, Lužar had ordered his own vehicle forward to break the impasse, but if he had thought the sight of his approaching T-80UK command tank was going to intimidate the remaining enemy soldier he was mistaken. The enemy soldier had continued to pin down the infantry with short economic bursts, buying more time for his comrades to make good their escape. Lužar had been forced to drop down inside the turret to avoid the fire directed his way, after which his gunner had fired a single main gun round into the ruins, silencing the weapon.
Colonel Lužar had left the tank after unclipping from its storage place an AMD 65, the tank crews folding stock version of the AKM. His loader, similarly armed, had accompanied him into the ruins where Lužar had half hoped to find his enemy still alive. It had taken courage to remain there all alone and in the knowledge that the best you could hope for was to be captured once your ammunition ran out, but you had to be a real optimist to count on that as an outcome.
His enemy had been lying face down in the rubble, one leg at an unnatural angle and the material of the camouflage trousers soaked in blood. Lužar gently rolled him over onto his back and using a penlight he’d looked at the face of a young man in his early twenties. One side of the soldier’s head had a strange uneven look about it; the result of being crushed by flying masonry but the colonel had felt for a pulse anyway. The half lidded, dead eyes stared back at him as Lužar had looked him over. The uniform and equipment were British, and he had read the name on the tag above his victim’s breast pocket before removing the 9mm Glock from its webbing holster on the dead soldiers fighting order.
Returning to his command tank he had climbed inside and closed the hatch, turning up the internal lighting before unloading the pistol and stripping it for inspection. He’d found the weapon had been recently cleaned and lightly oiled, which were hardly the actions of demoralised troops at the verge of breaking. With the lighting doused once again Lužar had unbuttoned the hatch and watched the infantry place inside a shallow grave the body of 2Lt Reed. J, Royal Artillery.
Back in the here and now the colonel was still mulling over the significance of apparently well-trained and motivated troops, and their conspicuous absence from the field.
The van passed through the talkative baker’s hamlet, the buildings all in darkness and not a soul was in sight. So far the roads had been empty of civilian traffic that were for once complying with the curfew, thanks to the extra militia drafted in from surrounding regions, but those extra men not employed on enforcing the curfew, they were committed to the house searches and cordoning suspect areas such as the forest the van was heading for.
Five miles from the edge of the forest, the van turned onto a farm track and from then on its passengers were treated to a rough ride. Caroline powered down the laptop she had been plotting their course on, it was impossible to work whilst being jolted about. True to his word the contact knew another way, the network of tracks linking the fields of various farms, but after two miles in low gear the engine was overheating badly and the makeshift repairs on the hose gave out. Steam enveloped the van, preceded by a loud report as the hose burst and followed by curses from the driver’s cab.
They arrived at the airstrip tired and muddy, having crawled along a ditch to avoid a pair of sleepy militiamen. Any hopes of rest were dashed when Caroline and Patricia were informed that their target was to be attacked as soon as possible
Black, oily smoke rose above the emergency landing field as Lt Col Arndeker turned onto finals and brought the speed down to 160knots. Without any effort on his half, the flaperons lowered in response to the lower speed setting and Arndeker peered ahead. There was a lot of activity on the grass to the left of the single runway. Fire trucks were clustered together near a burning aircraft but it was too far to yet see anything more.
A country lane, bordered by hedgerows, ran across the bottom of the landing field and Arndecker’s F-16 passed a few feet above it before touching down. He had seen the fresh scars in the grass as he had gotten closer to the field, pointing like a finger to the wreck, which he now identified as a German Tornado F3. It had apparently slid along on its belly for some distance before performing a ground loop, ending up on its back and facing the way it had come. Silver suited firemen on two of the fire trucks were pumping foam from nozzles mounted above the driver’s cabs, covering the aircraft in a white shroud. Arndeker swept past, getting a momentary glimpse of two bodies, covered from head to foot by blankets, laid out side by side next to one of the fire trucks.
Turning off the runway he followed the perimeter track around the field, passing the mobile control shack before turning off onto a prefabricated road made of perforated aluminium strips that led to an orchard. Amongst the trees were parked a dozen aircraft, which like him had run low on fuel and now awaited the field’s solitary fuel bowser.
Arndeker’s eyebrows rose as an airman guided him to a spot next to an aircraft wearing the Triple Crown insignia of Sweden. Having intervened in the Soviet attacks on Norway and the North Cape the Swedish government had back peddled somewhat, aligning itself with NATO ‘in principle’ but ducking the question of committing forces outside of its own borders. The presence of a JAS 39A Gripen indicated something not included in any of the briefings Arndeker had attended.
On shutting down, Arndeker clambered down the ladder an airman had put against his cockpit and took a look at the neighbours. The Gripen was the only Swedish aircraft there; the remainder consisted of another Luftwaffe Tornado, a pair of RAF Jaguars and eight F-16s in the liveries of Norway, the USA, Belgium and The Netherlands.
The airman, a Royal Air Force aircraftman, informed him that the bowser was refilling and that a NAAFI wagon would be coming around with tea and sandwiches. Thanking him he then headed for the cluster of men and women in flight gear sat beneath the Tornado.
None of the American’s was from Arndeker’s squadron but he knew them by name and introductions were made all round. The German’s were grim faced having witnessed the death of two of their squadron mates, and said little. He sat beside the pilot of the Gripen, a good looking blond with high cheekbones and striking blue eyes who introduced herself as Lojtnant Ulrika Jorgensen. Ulrika’s flight had been responsible for taking out the Red Air Forces AWAC cover far behind the Elbe, clearing the way for airborne drops. It was the first Arndeker had heard that NATO had taken offensive action, and he thanked her and her country for finally stepping beyond the border. Her response had been curious, laughing and telling him he had better make the most of it because the air force would as like as not be behind bars this time tomorrow. He was about to ask what she’d meant by that but the promised NAAFI arrived and there was a scramble to be at the head of the line. Over plastic cups of sweet tea and cheese sandwiches, which the RAF crews called ‘mouse meat sarnie’s’, they had all described their experiences of that morning. Arndeker congratulated Ulrika on the Il-76 and Mig-31 she had brought down that morning, bringing her score to three when added to a Flogger bagged on the day the Soviet’s had overflown her country to attack Norway.