Torneski’s position was far from secure but international support could change that.
As the conferencing link was ended the lights came up in the Presidents room to reveal that he had been far from alone.
“Okay.” Said the President. “Thoughts and observations?”
“Am I the only one who noticed that the brakes only came on after they lost the race for the autobahns?” said Ben Dupre, the FBI Director. “And what’s with that hair?”
The President looked down at her file and the few photos that they had of this comparative unknown, and compared it with another photograph of a different Russian national.
The President turned in his seat to look at Ben and nod emphatically in agreement.
“Absolutely.” He stated before looking at his CIA Director “That would seem to be one for you psychoanalysts, Mr Jones.”
Terry Jones did not take notes however. The CIA’s expertise in such matters was unsurpassed and already in hand regarding Premier Torneski. The organisations predecessor, the ambiguously names Office of Strategic Services, the OSS, employed the offices of one Walter C Langer to help them second guess a certain dictator. In 1943 Mr Langer, despite not holding a degree in psychiatry, duly submitted what became the benchmark for all future works in that field. The report entitled ‘The Mind of Adolf Hitler’ opened a window onto one sick puppy. Since then all world leaders, friend, foe and neutral alike have had dossiers that included psychoanalysis by the experts at Langley. The President himself would be somewhat put out to learn that such a report existed on Theodore Kirkland, the current POTUS, as is the case for all occupants of the Oval Office.
“Just because dog owners seem to take on certain physical similarities to their pets does not necessarily make them bad people.” Joseph Levi, his Chief Science Advisor, observed.
“It is the ‘necessarily’ bit that has me concerned” The President said with a frown, which gave over to a faint smile. “That’s why I don’t own a dog, Joseph.”
Elena Torneski had dyed her blonde hair the colour of chestnut and now wore it in the fashion of their own principle intelligence asset on Operation Guillotine.
“Now that we have agreed upon reopening diplomatic exchange via embassies and a return of pre-war media reporting norms, I can find out more about the new Premier but I cannot give any time frame for that data to be available.” Terry Jones put in. “I should, however, have a handle on why the order to the Red Army to cease hostilities took so long to implement.
The President now had another conferencing call waiting with Perry Letteridge and Barry Forsyth, the Australian and New Zealand Prime Ministers. That call would be followed by yet another online conference with the European leaders, including those whose nerve had failed them. As tempting as it was to cut them out of any future exchanges their armies’ men and women had blithely ignored orders to stand down and as such it would be inappropriate to tar them with the same brush as the elected leaderships of their nations.
The Axis partnership of the New Soviet Union and the People’s Republic of China was dissolved, and NATO could now bring all its forces to bear on the remaining theatre of operations, the Pacific.
“Ask General Shaw…” The President faltered, but then continued “I mean, General Carmine, to be ready for a full session on our situation in the Pacific, our surviving forces in Australia, next of kin notifications too for those who had been in Sydney, and his assessment on the condition of NATO’s European armies.” he instructed an aide before turning again to Terry Jones.
“Any word on Henry?”
The expression on Terry’s face was warning enough that no good news was coming on that front.
“Mr President, Jacqueline Shaw suffered a stroke, a big one, shortly after learning that Matthew and Natalie had been in Sydney. She is at Bob Wilson in San Diego and Henry is at her side.” Terry Jones did not add that Henry was also nursing a bottle. The President had enough to deal with at the moment.
“Prognosis?”
“The ‘Golden Hour’ was long gone before she was found, apparently.”
The Golden Hour was that small window in which doctors and surgeons could repair the damage without there being any lasting effects.
The President closed his eyes for a moment, regretting the exchange that had soured his relationship with someone who had become an anchor of support.
“Thank you Mr Jones, and now I think we need to press on with the Australian and New Zealand Premiers.”
After watching the destruction of the Red Army’s two point divisions the first ground units of 4 Corps had rolled into the view of the Vormundberg defenders. Moving immediately into the attack, the armoured cavalry had destroyed the forces still west of the rivers, those too slow to run away or surrender. The Red Army itself did not stop fighting until the mid-morning.
In the afternoon, the Supreme Allied Commander, Europe, General Pierre Allain, had arrived by helicopter accompanied by Alexander Baxter, the 4 Corps commander, and Major General David Hesher, commander of the ad hoc collection of units that had formed the last line of defence. They had landed on the top of the Vormundberg, on a freshly decontaminated acre where the still smoking wreckage of the final Soviet attack lay spread out before them. The Canadian summoned all the brigade and battalion level commanders, addressing them with little attempt at formality.
“You will be gratified to learn that my headquarters has been working tirelessly on your behalf for the past seventy two hours.” Pierre Allain informed them in earnest tones. “The finest military minds in the world were set a single task and it has now born fruit.” Although they were suffering fatigue he could see he had their interest.
“We have named you all ‘The International Division’.”
It took a moment to sink in, but the tired, and in some cases nearly exhausted warriors in their filthy, stained chemical warfare protection suits had been able to laugh.
“Gentlemen.” stated General Baxter on stepping forward to address Dave Hesher and his officers. “You are relieved.”
It had of course not been a simple matter of just folding their tents and departing. There were the wounded to treat, the few that had not succumbed to chemical agents due to loss of their protective clothing’s integrity. There were the dead and the missing to list, and the living to marshal up and organise, and all within a contaminated environment.
The dead were collected and gently laid out; their ID tags checked and double checked to confirm their identity in life, and their personal effects were then listed, bagged and tagged but not for onward transmission to next of kin. The bodies were bound for the final decontamination, a field crematorium, and the belongings to a furnace for closely supervised destruction, all having been exposed to the deadliest of chemical WMDs yet devised. Only their weapons and remaining ammunition were salvageable.
Captain Timothy Gilchrest was eventually found amongst the dead of 8 Platoon, and he had not gone meekly into the night. Beside his body were those of six members of the 23rd MRR that he had sent on ahead, right before a grenade had ended resistance from his trench.
Lance Corporal Steven Veneer and Guardsman Andy Troper joined the long line of those who had fought back desperately when 4 Company was being overrun. Shunned by the 82nd Paratroopers of that company in life, the Coldstreamers now joined them on the hillside, silently waiting processing before being slipped into body bags and removed. Their Stinger launcher would be decontaminated and eventually put on display in the Sergeants and Warrant Officers Mess at Wellington Barracks; although it would never be established which man had used it as a club once their ammunition ran out.