The Fall of Night

Prologue

From: The Guardian.  1st June 2007

Following questions in Parliament, Scotland Yard confirmed that the prime suspect in the rape and murder of Judy Lewisham near RAF Mildenhall was Corporal Michael Collins, an American serviceman stationed at RAF Mildenhall, a base operated by American forces in Britain.  Collins, one of thousands of Americans stationed in Britain, was apparently confined to the base following the rape and murder; the Police investigation conducted by Inspector David Briggs was taken over by the Home Office, following the use of DNA remains to trace the murderer.  The attempt by the Home Office to hush the entire affair up has caused great distress to the people of Judy’s community.

Unconfirmed reports have further reached this reporter that Collins was flown out of the country as soon as the Home Office contacted American authorities regarding the possible extradition of Collins for trial and sentencing in Britain.  Protesters, led by Judy’s family, have surrounded RAF Mildenhall and have refused to be dispersed by either police or American guards; a number of violent incidents have already been reported near American bases in other locations, with Americans attacked and in some cases banned from pubs and shops.

Condolences, many directly addressed to Judy’s family, have been flowing in from all over the world.  President Nekrasov of Russia has offered his sympathies and support, if necessary, to ensure that Collins is brought to justice.  General Henri Guichy, who is in line for a seat on the European Defence Commission, called for the incident to be treated as a symbol of American arrogance in the world and for Europe to insist on revisions to the various Status of Forces agreements, particularly the ABM bases established in Poland against the expressed resolution of Brussels.

Although neither Ten Downing Street nor the White House have commented, it strikes this reporter that relations between Britain – and to some extent the European Union – and America have reached an all-time low.  Between inflammatory comments made by Senator David Howery and Congressman Reaper, and calls for American bases to be placed firmly under British jurisdiction by a multi-party group of Members of Parliament in London, it seems that relations between Europe and America are about to go through a very rapid series of changes, perhaps even a total break.  This reporter says; not a moment too soon.

Chapter One: Raging at Infinity

The problem with the British Army is that there is a British Army.

Unnamed Progressive, 2007

London, England

It was turning into a very bad day.

They’re about to begin the march, Sergeant Harold Page said.  The Superintendent wants to ensure that everything is ready for them.

Inspector David Briggs said nothing, merely looked down at the images from countless CCTV cameras scattered around the centre of London, from the park where the marchers were gathering to the entire region of Hyde Park, which had been designated as the endpoint for the march, where the leader of the Front for Peace, Freedom and Progress would address the crowd.  There were thousands of people there, some of them dedicated marchers, some of them students or tourists drawn into the excitement, some of them there merely to pick up girls... and a hardcore of real troublemakers. 

We have over a thousand police officers on duty, he said. The Metropolitan Police had drawn in officers from all over the country, as well as calling up all of the reserves.  The remainder of London would be shorthanded for the duration of the march, something that worried the Superintendent enough for him to pass local control over to Briggs.  The Superintendent was a political animal; he knew that little good would come out of the march, and it would be a career-wreaker for any officer if something went wrong.  We have medics, riot control squads and even armed anti-terrorist units on alert.  What could go wrong?

Page shrugged.  The Metropolitan Police dreaded a repeat of the protest marches that had occurred in America, where a handful of local terrorists had used car bombs to slaughter the protesters and incite anger.  The American War on Terror had been going on for twenty-three years and the British public – along with the remainder of the European Governments – feared that it would one day spread back to Britain and Europe.  It would only take a handful of hardcore troublemakers – and the Home Office had warned that several dozen known troublemakers were planning to attend the march – to kill thousands and further stain the reputation of the Police.

Briggs was, for a moment, lost in thought.  If it had been up to him, he would have banned the protest from taking place, no matter what the law said.  It was a disaster waiting to happen... but the Prime Minister would never allow the Metropolitan Police to prevent protesters from marching.  The protesters had played a major role in the fall of the British Government after the RAF Mildenhall Incident... or perhaps it had been after the Sudan Disaster.  They would never dare prevent the people asserting their right to protest, no matter the dangers, or the extremists who would use it as political leverage.  Peace was important, the Government said, peace at any price...

The Sergeant coughed.  Yes, I know, Briggs said, more in private irritation than anger.  The Metropolitan Police had what seemed like a permanent manpower shortage and they couldn’t afford to lose anyone.  Tell the Superintendent that everything is ready and we hope that it can be concluded quickly.

He leaned back in his chair and muttered a curse under his breath.  It was just like the Metropolitan Police of 2024; they could build a mobile command centre that was capable, in theory, of commanding a police operation over the entire United Kingdom... while at the same time, they could neither provide the manpower to police Britain effectively, or even comfortable chairs for the officers on duty.  He would have preferred to have handled matters from New Scotland Yard, but procedure called for the officer commanding – at least until politics decreed his replacement – to be on the scene.  At one point, that had meant something; now, all it meant was chaos.

The protesters hadn’t waited for the police go-ahead; that would have been dreadfully conformist of them.  The stewards provided by the Front for Peace, Freedom and Progress hadn’t attempted to stop them; three of them were already cooling their heels in a police van, handcuffed to the seats, until they could be transported to the nearest police station to be charged with assault and attempted rape.  The Front for Peace, Freedom and Progress was a genuinely transnational organisation; Briggs had been disgusted with some of the stewards who had been brought in to provide crowd control.  The Superintendent hadn’t allowed him to use that as a cause to have the march cancelled; politics, once again...

The bastards would probably get away with it as well.

Two pickpockets caught by the crowd, Page said, interrupting his thoughts.  The dumber of London’s petty criminals had gravitated to the crowd, seeing an opportunity for quick profit; the crowd might allow them to get away with it, or they might turn on the crooks.  Socialists, in Briggs’ experience, tended to get very irate when it was their pocket being picked.  The local officers have them in custody.

Good, Briggs said.  There had been several marches where the crowd had fought police officers to free criminals, for whatever reasons made sense to the vast human body; this march, so far, hadn’t turned nasty.  Get them to the vans and transported to the police station.

He flicked through the images from different CCTV cameras.  The march organisers had predicted that over ten thousand interested people would come; it looked to Briggs as if they had been out by an order of magnitude.  The elaborate programs scanning the images faster than the human eye could begin to grasp were reporting well over a hundred thousand people in the vicinity, including identifying thousands of people known to the police though Facial Recognition Software.  Some of them were people who had had a brief run-in with the police, some of them were famous figures; he spotted two MPs, one MSP and five candidates for the local elections, coming soon.  The Mayor of London was there, glad-handing with his constituents, including some that Briggs would never have expected to see together...

Before the world had gone crazy.

One large body of marchers were very openly homosexual; they wore garish clothes and marched with exaggerated movements, designed to shock as much as attract.  A second body – several bodies – of marchers was composed of Muslims, marching in a bizarre combination of groups, united temporarily by their dislike for the Americans and suppressing their dislike for the homosexuals.  Iran had put a dozen gaysexuals to death the week before the Iran War had begun; the homosexual marchers could expect nothing but death under Islamic rule.  Briggs knew, even if the government ensured that the general public knew little about it, about the young Muslim men killed by their peers... merely for being gaysexual.  To Briggs, a practical man, it made no sense; why were two groups with so much reason to hate each other allied?

The answer made itself clear as the first American flag burst into flame.  Everyone knew that North Korea had been rattling the sabre – again – in Korea and the South Korean Government had screamed for help.  Despite America’s overstretched position in the Middle East, the American Government had organised the hasty dispatch of an American force... ignoring the protests from Europe and Russia alike.  American spokesmen had pointed to the ongoing Chinese Civil War; Kang Seung Jae, the Dictator of North Korea, had to know that North Korea was finally coming to the end of its existence... and appeared to be preparing one final gamble.

Everyone also knew that North Korea had nukes.

Page was tapping instructions into one of the consoles.  Sir, he said, is that her?

Briggs peered past the ‘BUSH; WAR CRIMES,’ ‘RAPE KIRKPATRICK NOW’ and ‘NO MORE BLOOD FOR OIL’ signs, and nodded.  That’s her, he said, shortly.  Daphne Hammond, otherwise known as the Leader of the Front for Peace, Freedom and Progress, cast-iron stone-cold bitch.  Those stunning looks, Harry, conceal a mind that is cold and very calculating.

Page cocked an eyebrow.  Daphne Hammond was around thirty and looked twenty, with long blonde hair, a balcony that someone could perform Shakespeare from, and stunning blue eyes.  She was also a trained lawyer, a woman who had outlasted at least two husbands, and privately considered to be the most dangerous woman in the world.  He had been on the receiving end of her tongue more than once; as the leader of the Front for Peace, Freedom and Progress, she was formidable... and perhaps destined to be Britain’s second female Prime Minister.  Certainly, her name had been put forward as a possible candidate...

Briggs shook his head and wondered; what was Daphne playing at?  She might have been blonde, but she was no dummy; she had brought together a coalition that included factions that wouldn’t be impressed by her good looks, or would regard a woman in power as an abomination.  The Front had smaller sections all over Europe; as a mainly European Party, it might even have more clout than the figures suggested.

That’s definitely one of the troublemakers, another operator injected.  Briggs pushed the issue of Daphne’s actions to the back of his mind – it wasn’t as if anyone had any proof that she was involved in anything other than political actions, even if her two husbands had met early graves – and turned to the console.  The Facial Recognition Software was certain; the CCTV cameras had locked onto a known troublemaker, someone who had caused more than a few riots... and somehow was never jailed.  That’s Baz Falkland, all right.  I’m not sure if he is chatting up that girl or if he’s up to something.

Briggs scowled.  Have supporting units moved up, he said.  If it did turn nasty, a lot of people were about to be hurt.  I want...

Page interrupted him.  Sir, the stewards just muscled him off, he said.  Briggs blinked; he hadn’t known that the stewards had either the knowledge or the determination to move the troublemaker along.  Baz Falkland was trouble, everyone knew it; a reputation that had started in Manchester and moved through many of England’s cities.  Only sheer luck had saved him from a jail term.  It looks as if they were pretty rough.

Briggs nodded.  I want additional constables in the area, he said.  He would shed no tears for Baz Falkland, but if the stewards started muscling innocent people around, the police would have to intervene quickly, even if it meant his career.  And someone reassure the Superintendent; everything is under control.

It said something about the general opinion of the Superintendent that no one even blinked at the scorn in his voice.

***

I would have thought, Caroline Morgan remarked, as her shoulder-mounted camera sensor tracked a set of marchers carrying ‘BUSH MUST FACE THE ICC’ signs, that beating the President Bush horse is just a little outdated by now.  It is 2024, after all.

But it was President Bush who started the American grab for the Middle East, Daphne Hammond said, her voice almost girlishly innocent.  Caroline would have been fooled, perhaps, were it not for her instincts; Daphne Hammond was bad news.  She seemed young, and sincere... except for her eyes.  They were cold and hard, as if she had seen everything a thousand times over, and hadn’t been impressed the first time.  Even now, the Americans are fighting to hold down the Middle East and extract the last drop of oil from its soil.

Caroline almost tuned the speech out of her mind, knowing that it was all carefully prepared to impress people who were already inclined to distrust America.  According to Daphne Hammond, after CIA operatives had carried out the terrible atrocity of 9/11, the Americans had used it as an excuse to first invade Afghanistan, and then Iraq, before luring the Europeans into first Iraq, and then Sudan... before cutting off their supply lines and leaving General Éclair to take the blame and kill himself, incidentally weakening EUROFOR to the point where it could not provide the counterbalance to America... and then luring Iran into a war.  The Americans had bombed Israel, for some reason that had only made sense to them, and then allowed their own soldiers to endure two nuclear attacks... and a long and bloody occupation of the Middle East.

As history, it was utterly grotesque.

Thank you, Caroline said, as soon as Daphne had finished.  But tell me, what do you really think?

Daphne’s eyes flickered with rage, just for a second, and then the mask was back in place.  I think that the European compliance with the Americans has gone on long enough, she said.  "It wasn’t anything like enough to evict almost all of the American forces from Europe after that terrible incident in Mildenhall. We have to create a United Europe which can provide a strong and positive voice in the United Nations towards creating a strong and dignified Earth."

Caroline took a moment to sort it all out in her mind.  You must be aware that the European Union has become much more unpopular in both Britain and France, to cite, but only two cases, she said.  It was true; the British believed that Europe had been ruining British industries, while French opinion blamed the endless influx of Algerian and Palestinian refugees on the EU.  Why do you feel that your... transnational group would win elections to the European Parliament?

We have already won seats in several elections across Europe, Daphne reminded her dryly.  I have also been offered the chance to compete in the Liberal Democrat internal elections for leadership as the party approaches the coming election.  She smiled.  I don’t know if I will be running as an independent MP, or if I will leave that to others within the Front and take up the nomination, but it should give you some idea of my... electoral chances.

Caroline considered.  There had been a time when it had been almost unthinkable for politicians to switch parties; now, it happened almost as often as footballers changing football clubs.  What did it mean to the country?  Had the Liberal Democrats decided that Daphne was a vote-winner, or had their own Far Left insisted on her challenging the current leader, or...?

There were too many possibilities.  There were people who would detest her; they wouldn’t vote for the Liberal Democrats if it meant that Daphne got to plant her arse in Number Ten.  The march today wouldn’t help matters; for everyone who saw the marchers and felt admiration, there would be ten who would be disgusted.  The Far Right was also making a comeback; the fallout from the American War, everyone was certain, would eventually fall on the United Kingdom.  They allowed themselves to forget London, Glasgow, Blackburn...

Daphne shrugged  I would love to continue chatting to you, my dear, but I fear that I have to walk all the way to Speaker’s Corner and give a speech, she said.  She grinned suddenly.  Of course, it is only five minutes from here, and the stewards have kept the passage clear; would you like to come with me?

Caroline shook her head.  She had been lucky to be granted the quick interview, but there was already too high a price; the price for the scoop of walking beside Daphne was too much for her to pay.  There would be dozens of audio and visual sensors trained on her as she mounted the soapbox – literally; the Front had found one specially for her – and she would gain nothing from being close to her.

Be seeing you, then, Daphne said.

Break a leg, Caroline replied.

***

It would not have surprised Zachary Lynn – or the man who refused to think of himself as anyone other than Zachary Lynn – that the Police had a command post near Hyde Park.  It was common sense... and, if the government of the day had little in the way of common sense, or even self-preservation instincts, the Metropolitan Police had plenty of experience in real police work.  Besides, Lynn himself had a command post, far too close to the heart of the action for anyone’s comfort.

Lynn smiled as the marchers flooded into Hyde Park.  There were more than he had predicted, even with his own opinions of the degree of foolishness of the British public set very low indeed.  It was impossible, among other things, to give every citizen an ‘above average’ income, let alone provide a counterbalance to America and cut the military at the same time.  France’s attempt at ‘assisting’ Algeria should have proven that... that, and the reappearance of the Argentinean claim to the Falklands.

There was a buzz in his earpiece.  Sir, we have apprehended Baz Falkland, his aide said.  The aide knew everything, the only person in Britain apart from Lynn who knew the entire scope of the plan.  If the Police stumbled onto them, he would have to carry on while Lynn killed himself to prevent interrogation.  Do you have any specific instructions?

Lynn nodded.  The same as usual, assuming that the Police haven’t noticed, he said.  They had a link into the heart of the Metropolitan Police, a mole who provided information that they had used for their own reasons; they would know pretty quickly if the Police had realised that Baz Falkland had been more than just muscled away.  Tell him that he can work for us at good rates of pay, or he can enter the Thames with concrete overshoes.

On the display, broadcast by half a dozen news channels, some of them old and trusted, some of them new and inexperienced, Daphne Hammond was beginning her speech.  It was a good speech, one of her speechwriter’s best; she would condemn the Americans, praise the European Union, and promise a new Heaven and a new Earth if her party was elected.  He was proud of Daphne Hammond, in his own way; it was a shame that her talents could not be used openly for the cause. 

He smiled.  American flags were burning, London was almost at a standstill, and the plan was moving ahead.

It was turning into a very good day.

Chapter Two: Armageddon Rising

A great wind is blowing, and that gives you either imagination or a headache.

Catherine the Great

Moscow, Russia

The line of cars appeared out of nowhere, seemingly entering the city at the same time and angling into a single line that advanced mercilessly towards the Kremlin.  They were all black, all with tinted windows; the police herded the population of the city out of the way as the cars flashed onwards.  There were few protests; the citizens of Moscow knew that their lords and masters were in the cars, many of whom deserved actual respect.  A handful of criminals, convicted and sentenced to work as brute labour, made obscene gestures as the cars passed; their supervisors, themselves brutes, laid around them with their whips.  Order would be maintained.

General Aleksandr Borisovich Shalenko sat in his car as the vehicle entered the Special Security Zone at the heart of Moscow, the heart of Russia.  Decades of war with the Chechen rebels and the re-absorption of the former SSR states in Central Asia had made Russia a target for every international Jihadist group; even the extreme control practiced over the citizens by the new government found it hard to prevent all attacks.  No one was allowed to enter the Special Security Zone without being searched, not even a General and one of the President’s closest friends and confidents; Shalenko would have had the guards executed if they failed to search him with as much care as they would devote to a lowly civil servant.

Papers, please, a guard said, his AK-2015 pointed just away from Shalenko’s chest.  He wouldn’t hesitate to fire if there was something seriously wrong, or even if his suspicions became aroused; no one would forget the truck bomb that had devastated Stalingrad, or the LNG tanker that had devastated Oakland in America.  Shalenko passed over his papers without comment; the days when Russian Generals could barge though security were long over.  You may pass, sir.

The driver took the car into the car park, where it would be searched, while Shalenko himself walked into the guardhouse.  The search process was through; the guards removed his service weapon even as they checked his identity, his possessions, and the contents of his security briefcase.  They weren’t cleared for any of the information in the briefcase; they had to wait for one of the President’s aides to inspect it for them, just in case there was a bomb inside.  It wouldn’t be the first time that an unsuspecting officer was turned into an unknowing suicide bomber.  Finally, however, Shalenko was permitted access to the inner heart of Russia.

Welcome back, General, Colonel Marina Konstantinovna Savelyeva said.  Her official rank was Colonel; her position as chief aide to the President gave her status and power well above her station.  In Russia, power, responsibility and rank sometimes existed in inverse proportion to one another; Shalenko himself had once been a mere Captain with Colonels and even Generals reporting to him.  The President is keen to begin the meeting.

They walked the remainder of the way into the Kremlin in silence, their only escorts a handful of security troops, intent on ensuring that there was absolutely no threat to the President and the bureaucracy that made up the core of Russia.  Shalenko had once considered it overkill, before the series of attacks in America had begun; the Russian state might have suffered some attacks, but nowhere near the number of brutal attacks that the Americans had weathered.  The price for that was a police state that would have had the old KGB reeling in astonishment and a disregard for any notion of civilised warfare.  They paused for a second in front of the new statue of Stalin – Russia had been caught for years in a wave of Communist nostalgia – and then entered the Kremlin, passing through still more checkpoints and finally entering the main room.  It had been renovated in the years since the new government had taken power; it was now both a testament to Russian military glories in the past, and the advanced technology that Russia had adapted from the West.  The old and the new merged seamlessly, all embodied in the face of the man who accepted Shalenko’s salute as they entered.

He was old, but with youthful eyes; his short-cropped white hair seeming too white to be real.  He was shorter than Shalenko, with a stocky body and hints of a greater strength than seemed possible, but he dominated the room by the sheer force of his presence.  No one doubted that the man facing them was the undisputed lord and master of Russia; Shalenko knew that if the President gave the order, his own troops would shoot Shalenko down within seconds.  He was respected and feared; a hard man to love, but not a hard man to follow.

President Aleksandr Sergeyevich Nekrasov.

General, Nekrasov said, without preamble.  His power sat easily around him; the only times he had ordered one of his inner circle executed had been when the member in question had concealed information from him.  Failure wasn't an automatic death sentence, not like it had been in Stalin’s day, but lying to him was never tolerated.  The Russian disease could not be allowed to spread.  I trust that your inspections were successful?

Shalenko nodded.  The vast majority of units are ready, he said, truthfully.  He had kicked arse and taken names all over European Russia and Belarus to ensure that the units were at their optimum condition.  The commando units need to have their specific targets assigned, but in most cases they would be capable of carrying out their missions without further preparation.

We have time, Nekrasov assured him.  They had been old friends for years, long enough to ensure that they understood one another.  Shalenko’s private fear had been that he would be asked to take up the post of Minister of Defence, but Nekrasov had spared him that; the role Shalenko held was the one he wanted.  We will review the operation as soon as the entire Cabinet is assembled.

They trickled in, one by one, as they were cleared by the security forces.  Nekrasov waited patiently as they came in, taking the time to exchange comments with a handful of people, asking after the health of wives and children with one breath and discussing the career of promising officers with another.  The new Russia needed promising officers; Shalenko himself had ensured that dozens of officers who had talent received training to go with it.  The reform of the Russian military since the end of the Soviet Union had been a painful process, but it had been worthwhile; Nekrasov controlled what was perhaps the most powerful land force on the continent.

As the doors closed, Nekrasov tapped the table.  My Friends, it has been over thirty years since the power of Mother Russia was broken by the Americans and their European lapdogs, he said.  "We were cast down and forced to be humble; our power and prestige was stripped from us and we were outcasts, always the target of jibes, always prevented from gaining the help we needed to develop ourselves.  Our people starved as America abandoned us and Europe lectured; military bases moved ever closer to our powers and America deployed ABM systems intended to ensure that our nuclear arsenal was no longer dangerous.  I remember the final withdrawal from Poland...

"I swore then that we would return.

For the past ten years, we have been pulling ourselves up by our bootstraps, Nekrasov said.  The room was very quiet.  We have developed our energy sources and have been using them to earn hard cash, that we have in turn used to develop and reform our military, and finally give Russia something to be proud of.  Now, we have a window of opportunity... and a deadly threat to our very well-being.

Shalenko listened as Nekrasov listed, one by one, the insults and indignities piled on Russia by Europe.  Nekrasov had nothing but contempt for Europe; Europe wasn't the Americans, who had the military strength and geographic luck to back up their words.  Brussels hectored and hounded, persecuting Russian immigrants, while meddling in the endless state of Ukraine unrest and assisting the Baltic States to break their agreements with Russia.  Ever since he had come to power, Nekrasov had used the advantages of Russia ruthlessly, from ensuring that the fuel that Russia supplied came at a high enough cost to impede Polish economic development, to using the positions in Belarus to build a support base for the greatest military attack the world had ever known.

We have been preparing for this for years, Nekrasov finished.  We have been waiting for the window of opportunity... and now we are ready.  In a month, Operation Stalin will commence... and a continent will be brought to its knees.

The reactions ran around the room.  Some of them had known from the start that the operation would be launched unless something very significant occurred to prevent it.  Some of them had thought that the entire operation was a pipe dream, or a desperately impossible gamble; they had never expected that anyone would actually try it.  They all burned to avenge the multiple insults that Russia had suffered over the years, but Operation Stalin...

Nekrasov smiled at them.  General?

I have completed my review of the units that have been assigned to Operation Stalin, Shalenko said shortly.  "The security requirements were quite high – most of the units have little idea that they will be going to war within a month – but training and supplies are excellent.  The logistics chain has been carefully prepared and the logistics units will be able to supply the advance forces with everything they will need to maintain the offensive.  It would be nice to be able to capture European supplies, at least of fuel and rations, but we are not dependent upon it.  We just completed RED STORM, a major exercise, and I am pleased to report that the battlespace management system worked fairly well.  Striking the balance between control from the rear and local awareness of conditions was tricky, but we believe that we have successfully mastered the art.

The Special Forces units have been largely prepared for their own missions, although we have been unwilling to assign them any specific intelligence on their targets, he continued.  Their role in the operation is absolutely crucial, but until we are ready to inform them of their targets, further training is likely to be counter-productive; we will begin practical training once all units have returned to their barracks and entered lockdown.  Security will be maintained.

He paused.  The operation has been extensively wargamed, he concluded.  Assuming that everything goes in our favour, we will win within a month; assuming that the enemy is aware of our intentions and takes steps to thwart us, we should still be able to win, but within six months.  It is therefore important that the long-range strike plan is launched; if we can destroy the European logistics chain, our victory is certain.

The Minister of Industry, Ostap Tarasovich Onyshenko, coughed.  That assumes, of course, that we neutralise both the European nuclear deterrent and the prospect of American intervention, he said.  Can you guarantee that we can accomplish both?

Nekrasov smiled thinly.  All warfare is based on risk, he said.  We can knock out most of the nuclear deterrent in the first round.  Olga?

Olga Dmitriyevna Sedykh, the Foreign Minister, spoke from her part of the table.  The Americans are fully committed in the Middle East and Korea, where the North Koreans are preparing to launch an attack against the south.  We have said nothing about this, of course; Kang is unlikely to need encouragement from us to attack either the Americans or his southern brothers.  The rift between Europe and America is a deep and apparently permanent one; the Americans no longer have an obligation to come to Europe’s rescue.  We expect that they will protest and secure Iceland, somewhere we are not even preparing to threaten; even if they intend to interfere, they have very limited forces at hand.

She paused.  The main danger is the American ABM units in Poland, she concluded.  They have to be neutralised... carefully.  We cannot afford to give the President a bloody flag to wave.

I have a specialised unit prepared for that mission, Shalenko assured her.  If nothing else, avenging the insult offered to us in Iran will seem like an excuse for the American public, as unreasonable as the Americans are on such matters.

In any case, they would hesitate, I think, before becoming embroiled with us, Nekrasov said.  They will be confused, at first, as to what is actually going on.  Maksim; what about our security?

Maksim Nikolayevich Zaripov, FSB Director of External Intelligence, smiled.  There have been no signs that anyone within the American or European intelligence services suspects the existence of Operation Stalin, he said.  We have very good penetration of the establishment in Brussels and Poland and while the Poles are worried about the presence of so many Russian soldiers in Belarus, to say nothing of the influx of refugees, they do not have any actual proof that we mean them ill.  The greatest proof, I think, is the ROE that Brussels gave the three EUROFOR deployments; Poland, Ukraine and Bosnia.  All of the units have no authority to so much as blow their noses without permission from Brussels.

Requested in triplicate, of course, Admiral Petr Yegorovich Volkov said.  Fifty-page forms, no mistakes, in three different languages.

There were some chuckles.  I believe that our security remains intact, Zaripov said.  Our deployment of submarines and weapons to the Algerians and Serbs has excited some comment, but nothing major; the main complaint is that we have been muscling out their weapon manufactures when it comes to sales to the Far East.  For some reason, not many people trust European weapons.

Shalenko smiled.  The French had supplied weapons to Iran, weapons that they could turn off at will... and they had been caught at it.  The Americans had forced the French to hand over the shutdown codes; the final radio broadcasts from Tehran had warned the world of the danger.  The integrated European defence industry had taken a major drop in sales.

Nekrasov tapped the table.  Margarita?

Shalenko found his eyes turning to Margarita Sergeyevna Pushkina, the FSB Director of External Operations, with interest.  She was pretty, but dangerous; she was known as the ‘Black Widow’ behind her back.  There were rumours that Nekrasov and Margarita were lovers, but informed opinion tended to disregard the possibility; the idea of the Black Widow having anything to do with anything as soft as love...

We have established penetration of all countries within Europe, some of them through the use of long-term FSB sleeper agents, others with the assistance of the Algerians, Margarita said.  Her voice was soft and very musical, but there was a hard edge that undercut her dark-haired appearance and soft skin.  This has the added advantage that if the Europeans stumble onto some parts of our network, the Algerians and radical Islam will get the blame.  The Algerian plan for a major uprising can, with our help, succeed to a certain extent.

She smiled.  There was no humour in the smile.  The Islamic Government of Algeria has been plotting its war for a long time, she said.  Their problem was that they would get their arse kicked if they tried it alone; with our help, they have a fair chance at pulling it off long enough for us to make our gains permanent.  Afterwards... well, it’s not as if we owe them anything.  They have been smuggling in weapons and preparing terror cells for years; we took advantage of the opportunity to move some of our own people into the region.

She paused.  I should stress that this part of the plan could fail, she admitted.  I have every confidence that our own people will carry out their missions or die trying, but I don’t trust the fanatics the Algerians have been sending in, or the Palestinians who took up residence in France.  Some of them probably suspect that we intend to stab them in the back as soon as we secure all of the vital targets, others will intend personal revenge, rather than anything that might help us.  As long as they keep the French and Spanish busy...

It went on and on; Shalenko found his head getting heavy as every last part of the plan was reviewed, examined, hacked apart and rebuilt and finally approved.  The planners had built friction into the plan; Shalenko was too old a dog to expect that everything would go perfectly, even if the first steps of the plan were played to perfection.  Over a million soldiers, sailors and airmen, some of them Kontraktniki officers, had been prepared for their mission; thousands of tanks, aircraft, missiles and warships had been produced for the greatest military attack that the world had ever seen.  Nothing would ever be the same again...

I think that we have taken care of every detail that we can control, Nekrasov said finally, after the details of the diplomatic offensive had been examined.  Are there any final issues we must cover?

There was a pause.  Stalin would never have said anything like that, or at least he would never have meant it. 

There is a point, Shalenko said.  We must avoid causing atrocities, at least until we are firmly in control, that involve the general population.  If they believe that they have a future under our rule, sir, they will be less inclined to fight to the death.

Nekrasov looked briefly at him, and then at FSB General Vasiliy Alekseyevich Rybak.  Rybak was known, not without reason, as the ‘Butcher of Chechnya;’ he had brought peace to the region, the peace of the grave.  He had also been mocked mercilessly because of his name.  The International Criminal Court had tried to indict him; the Russian Government had told them to go to hell.

We will have to establish control as quickly as possible, Rybak protested.  He met Nekrasov’s eyes.  We cannot tolerate defiance, but we can try to ensure that there are no... incidents.

Good, Nekrasov said firmly.  Revenge can wait until we have won the war; we cannot take the risk of doing the Europeans a small injury, after all.  He looked once around the room.  In a month, Operation Stalin will begin... and the global balance of power will shift towards us.  Good luck to us all.

Chapter Three: They Also Serve...

War is an ugly thing, but not the ugliest of things. The decayed and degraded state of moral and patriotic feeling which thinks that nothing is worth war is much worse.

John Stuart Mill

Edinburgh, United Kingdom

The girl was waiting for him in the darkness...

He could see her, her haunting dark eyes in her dark skin, wrapped in a purple cloth that had covered her young body.  He had seen her in the refugee camp, her dark eyes pleading for the safety that the Europeans had promised her... and then withdrawn.  He remembered her, dreaming – had the dream become reality or had reality become the dream? – her body charred and burnt by the fires that had consumed the camp, her body dying even as it moved sinuously towards him.  He could make out her curves, slowly being washed away by the fire; her breasts and thighs consumed, leaving only her eyes to glare accusingly at him.  She blamed him...

Captain Stuart Robinson woke up screaming.  His body was coated in sweat; there was a body by his side.  It took him long terrifying moments to remember that the body was that of his wife; he checked her pulse with one practiced hand, only to sigh in relief when he realised that she was alive.  The remains of the nightmare still floated around his mind; they were not in Sudan, but in Edinburgh.

His wife looked up at him.  The nightmare?

Robinson would have lied to Hazel if he could, but they had lived together long enough to know that lying would be futile.  Hazel had been there for him when the remains of the Sudan Deployment had returned to Europe, some of them to face charges of disobeying orders, others to quit the various armed forces in disgust, others to soldier on as best as they could.  Hazel’s father, a powerful local businessman, had offered to take his son-in-law on, but Robinson had refused the offer.  The military was his life.

Yes, he said.  The nightmare always returned the day before a deployment.  The long period of leave for his infantry company had come to an end.  I saw her again.

Hazel placed her hand in his and they held each other.  It wasn’t fair on her, Robinson thought, but there was nothing he could do about it.  The girl – he had never learned her name – had been one of the teenage girls at risk of losing honour, dignity and lives to the insurgents in Sudan, the type of people that the deployment had been intended to protect.  Instead, they had merely made a bigger target for the insurgents, the bastards who killed, raped and looted across the entire region.  The Rules of Engagement had made engaging them difficult... how else were they meant to prevent a massacre?  General Éclair's decision to tell the politicians in Brussels to go fuck themselves and order the enemy engaged had come too late; thousands had died in the ‘safe’ refugee camps.  And then...

They had been ordered home, of course, some of the British soldiers to face charges of disobeying orders.  Robinson had been a young private at the time, newly married; he had been spared any formal prosecution, but morale in the armed forces had plummeted.  General Éclair had killed himself, taking the blame on himself.  Some said that European military tradition had died with him.  There had been a time when ‘damnation to the French’ had been a British toast; now, soldiers drank to the last of the European commanding officers worth a damn.  All Robinson had to worry about had been the nightmares.

Hazel’s blonde hair spilled down as she straddled him.  Do you have to go back?

He knew what she meant; why don’t you leave the army and take the job offer from my father?  It wasn't as if he hated George Alban; the man had been quite accommodating to the squaddie who had courted, and then married, his daughter.  They might not have managed to provide him with any grandchildren yet, but Robinson was sure that they would have time for that one day; it was the thought of becoming dependent upon his father-in-law that bothered him.  He loved the junior ranks of the army. 

And besides, even in these times, it was far better than life as a civilian.

I don’t have a choice, he said, as his hands explored her breasts.  Nearly a decade of living together, since they were both in their teens, had given them unmatched knowledge of one another’s body.  She could draw anything from him and he could make her come for hours; nothing he had experienced before matched it.  She pushed down on him, pulling him into her, and he forgot himself for nearly an hour.  Hazel...

Don’t you dare fall asleep, Hazel said, afterwards.  You have to have a shower and then I think I’ll make you change your sheets.

That’s your job, Robinson said

He ducked the pillow she hurled at him, running into the shower before she could find something harder to throw.  He took a moment to use one of the new vibrating shavers to quickly remove all of his stubble, before running through a quick exercise routine and showering to remove the sweat.  The nightmare always made him wake up screaming; he wasn't the only one who had been to Sudan to have nightmares, but the Government had refused counselling to the soldiers.  They had just wanted to forget about it.  It had brought down a government, after all; they would have been happier to dance across a minefield.

Shaking his head, he dressed quickly and neatly and headed into the living room.  They kept such a large house because of the lodgers – something that George Alban had organised to ensure that his daughter was kept in the manner to which she was accustomed – but none of them worked in the mornings.  They had only two lodgers at the moment, something that Robinson was privately relieved about; the last thing he wanted was to run into them after a nightmare.

I’ll have your breakfast out in a moment, Hazel called, through the doorway to the kitchen.  She was a pretty good cook; she had been surprised to learn that Robinson could cook, something the army had bashed into his head.  Why don’t you watch telly and find out what’s going on?

Robinson laughed and sat down, finding the remote and clicking the interactive television on.  It had been a gift from his father-in-law on their wedding day, a new system that could present news to them based on their requirements, or give them an entire series of programs, if they had time to download them.  He had once downloaded all twenty seasons of Doctor Who and watched them, end to end; now, he put the temptation aside and turned to the BBC news.  The system knew his preferences.

American spokesmen today informed the world that American soldiers had been dispatched to South Korea in conjunction with a division from Australia and a smaller unit from New Zealand, the newsreader said.  She was a computer-generated program with impressive vital statistics; she was also the most popular pornographic character in the world, all computer-generated.  It had sparked off an entire series of studies into the human character.  Despite protest marches in a dozen European and Latin American capitals, the administration of President Joan Kirkpatrick is determined to avoid any appearance of weakness in the run-up to the forthcoming American elections.  The marchers...

Leftist morons, Robinson muttered, knowing that it had been the marchers who had gotten Europe into Sudan and then out of the damned country.  George Alban had been really scathing about them.  Next!

Another computer-generated face, this time vaguely French in appearance.  The leader of the French National Front yesterday called for Arab and Palestinian immigrants to be forcibly sterilized, she said.  Images of protest marches and riots spread across the scene.  "Jean-Luc Barras claimed that the rising tide of immigration was permanently changing France’s demographics and insisted that the French Government take firm steps to prevent further immigration.  The pronouncement was greeted by riots and protests; the European Court of Justice will meet today to decide if they should prosecute him for hate speech.  Both Radio Jihad and Islamic Law, broadcasting from Algeria, have called for his head.  The Islamic Government of Algeria has demanded that the French Government hand Barras over to them for trial."

Robinson rolled his eyes.  The French would probably give in too. 

The Canadian Government today refused to hand over a suspected terrorist to American authorities without some proof that he was a terrorist, a different face said.  This comes in the wake of American draft-dodgers fleeing to Canada and being turned back by the Canadian authorities, despite an underground movement intended to help the young Americans.  Congressman Dave Howery, of Michigan, demanded that President Kirkpatrick show resolve and compel the Canadian authorities to surrender the man.  The White House has not commented.

Cheerful news, Hazel commented, as she placed his breakfast in front of him.  Robinson grinned; bacon, eggs, fried potatoes and hash browns.  What more could anyone want?  All of it was cooked by his wife, not by a mess officer; the British Army had a recurring joke about men taking one look at the meals and deserting to the enemy.  Is there any good news?

Robinson passed her the remote, allowing her to skim through the hundreds of different news articles that were available to them.  It wasn’t like it had been when he’d been a child, when it had taken hours to download one episode of Doctor Who.  Now, it only took minutes to have an hour-long episode streamed over to them, and seconds for a short and chunky news piece.  He’d read articles that claimed that it was bad for people to have such access, but personally he loved it; the service was available everywhere in the UK and America.  They could even access news reports from Poland, or watch Polish television... and the world became a little smaller.

Ah, a kitty caught up a tree, Hazel said, after a moment.  Shall we watch that?

Robinson realised that he was being teased.  No, he said.  Anything of more interest to me?

Alfred Ashford, the convicted killer of a child molester, was today remanded to the custody of a medium-security jail, the newsreader said.  Robinson felt his jaw clench; there had been protest marches against that, the only protest march he had ever attended.  Ashford had caught a convicted paedophile molesting his daughter and killed the bastard, only to be charged with murder; the streets of Britain were no longer safe.  "Ashford is expected to spend at least ten years behind