He wished that the White House could have been closer but the government buildings either side of the van would have to suffice as he muttered.
“Allah Akbah!” and depressed the switch on the remote.
In the White House the president risen at 0800hrs with the benefit of just four hours’ sleep to top up his depleting internal batteries. His doctor, an Admiral, was concerned that his charge was approaching a collapse, the president’s caffeine intake was screwing up his system and he had been genuinely angry when he confiscated a packet of caffeine tablet’s from off the top of the Oval office desk.
This morning the president had showered and gone down to the kitchens to eat breakfast with the kitchen staff and his secret service bodyguards, he saw no point in the staff putting themselves out for a relatively empty residence.
They were all sat together in a quite informal relaxed atmosphere; one of the longest serving chefs was recounting a story about a banquet, during a previous administration and the antics of an extremely drunk Latin diplomat whose intake had rendered the then president’s mother-in-law irresistible in his eyes.
“Jesus!” said the president at one point in the story.
“There is a photo of her around somewhere… she is truly scary!” The laughter around the table was at its height when the lights went out.
The armed forces of the country had been arrayed along a roughly NW/SE line behind the Dnieper and Byerazino rivers. Unlike NATO armies the Belorussians had large stocks of both anti-tank and anti-personnel mines which they had spent the last two days planting in the earth on crossing approaches and near likely FUPs, forming up points, that an enemy might choose.
Since before the nomadic Khazari first wandered these lands in the 5th century the line of rivers had been a boundary and a defence. The rich, fertile earth had witnessed much conflict, the most recent being in the 1940’s. The Russians had defended from the east bank as the German Panzer armies sought ambitiously to conquer as far as the distant Bering Straits in 1941. Those same German Armies defended the opposite bank in 1943 when their enterprise failed and the Russians taught them the meaning of ‘pay back’.
Satellite Intel provided by NATO showed them three Army Groups coming their way. Amongst the mix of units opposing them were their own pro-Communist units now under Russian control, their defection had reduced the loyal Belorussian forces by 27 % on the ground and 48 % in the air.
Lithuania, Belorussia and Poland had requested NATO forces move forward into their countries to support them but NATO was in no position to go anywhere at present. Had NATO forces been suited and booted, ready to go, at that time they would probably have still chosen to make their stand in Germany anyway, where they knew the ground intimately. NATO offered the three countries more solid flanks to depend upon; if their forces fell back into Germany prior to the opening shots being fired. Not unexpectedly they all declined, choosing to defend their own soil. The NATO Commander did not press the offer more diligently, because as cold and callous as it may sound; the doomed country's armies would buy him a little time longer to organise. What NATO did promise was air support, intending where possible to thin out the New Red Army before their ground forces met east of Berlin.
When units of the 2nd Panzer Division, Armeegruppe ‘Mitte’ in 1943 had limped back to the west bank of the Dnieper River from their defeat in the biggest tank battle in history, Kursk, their soldiers had dug in at the exact spot where the Belorussian 1st Motor Rifle Regiment now waited. Radio intercepts in the night had warned them the enemy was now poised. The Belorussian soldiers stood-to in the pre-dawn darkness, glimpsing the shades of armies long gone in the river mists that coiled and flowed over their fighting positions.
The ghosts faded with the coming of the sun that burnt off the mists from the river. The night chill gave way to peaceful lulling warmth as morning gave way to afternoon.
Dozing soldiers came to wakefulness as three pairs of SU-25 ground attack aircraft screamed over at low level, heading west with under-slung ordnance in view.
The Commander of the Belorussian land forces was speaking with his staff as a printer in a nearby vehicle was noisily churning out a satellite photo being uploaded to them from Washington, after just a few seconds the printer stopped. An operator checked the equipment’s digital readout for error messages that would explain the interrupted down-feed, seeing none he slapped the side of the machine as one does with a misbehaving TV set. The data stream from America had stopped the moment Ahmed Mohazir had pressed the button in the crashed van with National Guardsmen firing on him.
Sarah Mintakis and Nigel Curtis were making their way into Terminal 1 behind a trail of disgruntled, tired and argumentative passengers from their Boeing 747–400. Qantas flight QF320 wasn’t going anywhere tonight, certainly not on to Sydney until the engine fault that caused their return to the Terminal had been rectified.
Emerging into the main concourse the Qantas ground staff took charge of the passengers and began the business of arranging hotels and transport. As cabin crew they already knew when their transport would arrive, they had over an hour to kill and chose to head for the smoking lounge, passing the water feature with the bird song so real you found yourself gazing up toward the roof for a glimpse of brilliant plumage. The smoking lounge, the only place in the airport where nicotine addicts from around the globe could rub shoulders, share their first, or last cigarette for another few thousand miles. Even the generally reserved English would nod and smile amiably at total strangers in the lounge as they broke their enforced fast for the mild narcotic.
Pushing through the doors of the glass-enclosed refuge of the stubborn, they continued through to the outside platform. The heat of the day still lingered along with Changi’s unique aroma of humid jungle undergrowth and jet exhaust. Leaning over the guardrail sharing gossip and cigarettes, they had their backs to the terminal and missed seeing airport staff and police rushing about. It was only when Nigel stopped in mid-sentence, eyes fixed on something above that Sarah looked too. Masses of parachutes, hundreds of parachutes, were drifting earthwards.
General Shaw exited from the cabin where the vice president was cosseted and shook his head in annoyance. They had been aloft for over five hours’ now since the bomb had gone off. The armed forces were at DefCon One and the ROE worldwide was weapons free.
B-52s that had arrived in England the day before were uploading for their first mission, a strike against the new Red Army. At Ramstein AFB in Germany the first of several wild weasel missions was standing by for NATO to challenge for air superiority over Lithuanian and Belorussia.
Poland appeared to be being bypassed but four divisions of reservists were threatening their border and preventing them providing support for Lithuania or Belorussia. However, Shaw knew already that the Poles were preparing to attack, not defend.
In Australia, their navy had surprised a PLAN mini sub on the surface close in shore, there were marker beacons on board which they suspected were to assist a future amphibious landing. Two navy helicopters were presently prosecuting a faint contact, which may be the mother ship of the mini sub.