Ward grimaced. The European communications network was supposed to be perfect, but it had failed before; the fleet was used to that. What they were less used to was losing all communication with their base in France, or Spain and Italy. The Churchill had been trying to raise Gibraltar — still British despite the best efforts of Spain and the European Commission, which had been in session for five years arguing — but they had had no luck either.
“Damn it,” he muttered. “When are they going to get their heads out of their asses and tell us what to do?”
It wasn’t the navy he had joined, not now; working with Europe was a confusing mass of rules and laws that rarely jibed together well. Twenty-seven heavy combat ships, forty smaller craft… all meshed together and expected to work as a team. To give Vadenboncoeur his due, he had immediately started a program of training and exercises, but their real mission seemed to eat up too much of their time. Ever since the Americans had moved the Sixth Fleet out of the region, the European Union had called itself the master of the seas… and that meant patrolling. From Grecian waters — Turkey wouldn’t even consider letting them into Turkish waters — to Gibraltar, the Standing Force patrolled and hoped that they would never have to face a real emergency.
“Captain, we may have a problem,” he said. “There are nineteen aircraft, now heading out from Algeria towards us… and they’re bombers.”
“Warn the flag,” Ward ordered automatically. Admiral Vadenboncoeur probably knew already, but standing orders were that all intelligence was to be shared as soon as it was developed, just in case it wasn't known to the commanding officers. “Do we have any ID?”
The Algerians sent, from time to time, MIG-29s and other Russian-bought aircraft to harass the Standing Force; they always presented a possible threat. The Arabs were lousy pilots, but there was no questioning their bravery; they would sometimes do something so utterly brave and stupid that no one from the West would anticipate it. The fleet had orders to avoid a confrontation with the Algerians if possible; land-based air cover would provide protection if the fleet needed it. The three carriers had only a minimal air group loaded.
“Flag acknowledges,” the communications officer said. “We are authorised to go active.”
“Finally,” Ward said. He grinned across at the sensor officer. “Bring up the sensors and let rip.”
The Churchill had the most advanced sensor suite in Europe. It was so powerful that it could cause problems for other ships who were too close, or worse. The radars started to sweep the skies, hunting for possible enemy aircraft; it was the loose equivalent of shouting ‘hey stupid’ at someone. The Algerians couldn’t miss it, even if they had their own sensors dialled down to nothing; it would literally shake their aircraft.
“Captain, there are more aircraft in holding patterns in Algerian airspace,” the sensor officer said. “I think they’re up to something.”
His voice broke in astonishment. “Jesus Christ!”
Ward stared as the display suddenly exploded with icons. Missiles, some of them tactical cruise missiles launched from submarines, were being fired… and aimed directly into Europe! There were hundreds of them, some of them being fired from far too close to the fleet, and they were heading right for their targets. At such short range, with so little warning, they would almost certainly be impossible to intercept. The Algerians couldn’t do that, could they? They only had a handful of submarines the Russians had dumped on them and none of them carried cruise missiles.
“Sound general quarters,” he snapped. The who and why were unimportant at the moment; the only certainty was that they were at war. Someone had just launched a massive pre-emptive strike on Europe… and it didn’t take much imagination to realise who it had to be. The Russians; who else could it be? He forced the thoughts down and turned to his display. “Clear for action; link us into the other ships and get moving!”
“Captain, the Algerian aircraft are closing,” the sensor officer reported. “I'm picking up limited targeting emissions, Russian-spec; they’re coming to attack us!”
It was almost unbelievable.
“The flag is warning them off,” the communications officer said.
Ward cursed; Admiral Vadenboncoeur wouldn’t have the stones to order the fleet to open fire unless there was a clear threat… as if hundreds of cruise missiles didn’t present a threat. They were spread out and vulnerable — damned politicians — and the best they could do was hold off the attack. His ship was coming to life around him as it prepared to enter its first combat operation, but he knew that it was too late. The enemy would almost certainly get in the first blows.
Admiral Daniel Sulkin was having similar thoughts. His aircraft had been sold to Algeria only a year ago; a handful of the latest version of the old Backfire bomber, an aircraft that had worried NATO badly back in the days of the Cold War. The Algerians had been keen to arm themselves to the teeth, fearful of American intervention into their Islamic paradise, and the Russians had been keen to give them whatever they wanted; they’d had plans brewing for Algeria. The Algerians couldn’t fly the aircraft without assistance, but the Russians had trained their own naval strike groups on Backfires… and, when the time came, the Algerians had been more than happy to allow the Russians the honour of flying them.
His unit had arrived in Algeria two months ago, something that had relieved him when he had seen the condition of the aircraft; it seemed that Arabs still cared nothing for more than basic maintenance. The Russians had sold them thousands of older tanks; half of them were unserviceable after a year, while three of the Backfires had had to be written off and cannibalised to get the others working. The Algerians hadn’t even understood the problem; as far as they were concerned, the aircraft were fine. Sulkin had known better; they would have only one chance to get the major blow in before the Europeans could react.
“That’s the enemy fleet,” his coordinator said. “The main ships have been targeted now with heavy weapons and missiles; the submarines will move in afterwards.”
Sulkin nodded. His command mainly consisted of submarines and aircraft; the heavy ships had remained in the Black Sea. The Turks hadn’t commented at how many submarines had passed through their waters; Sulkin hoped that that meant that the Turks were onboard, or at least neutral in Russia’s favour. The Europeans had been quite rude to them, shattering their dreams after the Turks had bent backwards to honour their obligations; they owed no love for Europe. They would never fully trust the Russians either, but the Russians, at least, weren’t hypocrites.
“Good,” he said. “Prepare to attack.”
The enemy fleet was lighting up; sensors activating and powerful radars starting to sweep the skies for his aircraft. They would see them, of course; the anti-radar foam that had been coated over the Backfire was far from perfect, even without the other aircraft around and the disturbances they were creating in the air. The only question was simple; would the Europeans fire first? If not, he would have the chance to get into firing position and engage them from ideal range; if they did, he would have to launch at once, even though success was still fairly certain. Sulkin was a perfectionist; he would be satisfied with nothing less than the destruction or scattering of the European Fleet.
He also knew about the second stage of the grand plan. The Algerians had to be successful… but not too successful. If they were too successful, the Russians would end up engaging their own allies, just to prevent them from compromising the objectives of Operation Stalin. In the long run, Sulkin knew that the Algerians were likely to suffer the same fate as the Chechens, but that would have to wait; for the moment, they were useful.