Well obviously in 2030 we will all have implants that automatically translate Russian metric to imperial for the reader ...

To get you in the mood for the grand finale - a bunch of Aussie farmers singing Russian revolutionary songs (for fun...)



(An 'esky' is an ice cooler/chillybin/icebox. So 'dusty-esky', geddit?)

BLITZ part III



“All SSBNs are now on station,” HOLMES advised. “The USS Columbia is holding in position at 49.411841 latitude, 172.854078 longitude, about two hundred miles south of the Aleutian Islands and 600 miles east of the Russian Kuril Islands.”

“What is the range of an HSSW nuclear-armed cruise missile?” Carl asked. “Can they hit the Kurils from there?” It would be a logical form of payback. The Russians created a dispute over an island in the Bering Sea, America made its point with an attack on an uninhabited island in the disputed Kurils chain, north of Japan.

“Five hundred and twenty miles. It cannot strike Russian territory from its current position with an HSSW. It does however carry ICBMs which are well within range.”

“The Ambassador says it’s a ‘shot across the bows’ – a warning,” Carl said. “They can get their point across with a nuclear detonation in the open sea.”

“On the basis of her information I have upgraded that likelihood from 12% to 13.5% percent since yesterday,” HOLMES replied.

“I thought you liked her,” Carl remarked.

“Please rephrase, I do not understand.”

“I’m betting she’s right.”

“You have a 13.5% chance of winning.”

“Forget it.”

“The President is about to make an announcement, shall I bring it onscreen?” HOLMES asked.

“Really? Yes please.” Carl tilted the screen and leaned back in his chair.

He hadn’t voted for the guy who was staring out at him from behind his desk in the Oval Office. But then, he hadn’t voted for anyone, so he only had himself to blame that in the middle of the biggest military crisis of the century, their Commander in Chief was a 75 year old whose sole military experience was as a platoon leader for the 3rd U.S. Infantry Regiment, guarding Arlington National Cemetery in Northern Virginia. He had demonstrated his temperament in the Turkey-Syrian conflict, cutting loose the Emirates as allies when they refused to allow him to base US aircraft there – a decision which unfortunately moved them into the Russian sphere. Williams had to hope President Fenner had cooler heads around him, but if Ambassador McCarthy was right, it wasn’t certain he did.

“My fellow citizens,” Fenner began. He had a pinched, narrow face and long nose, atop which sat small round rimless glasses of a type that had been fashionable several years ago. His bushy silver hair was swept across his forehead and looked like it was held in place by solid epoxy. “At this hour, I have taken steps to free our citizens on Saint Lawrence and to defend the world from a grave danger.”

"As you would be aware, for the last several weeks, under the guise of moving to protect the rights of international shipping in the Bering Strait, Russian forces have occupied the US territory of Saint Lawrence Island, to which we responded forcefully with regrettable loss of life on both sides. Russia has since escalated the conflict further and attacked US Air Force bases at Fairbanks and Anchorage. We have again responded to Russian military aggression in kind, with successful attacks on Russia’s front line offensive airfields at Anadyr and Lavrentiya.”

The President paused and Carl realized he was allowing this last news to sink in, because until now, it had not been public.

“This escalation cannot be allowed to continue. It stops, today.

“At 0800 hours Eastern Standard Time I advised President Navalny of Russia, that unless he began withdrawing his troops from Saint Lawrence by 1200 hours, he would witness a demonstration of force the like of which the world has not seen for nearly 100 years. As there was no indication that President Navalny tried to comply with this demand, I have authorized our navy to conduct the first ever live demonstration of a hypersonic missile-borne nuclear weapon - the first atmospheric nuclear weapons test by the United States since 1962. The test will take place in three hours, over the North Pacific Sea.

“While it will pose no threat to humankind, it will wreak terrible environmental devastation, and we deeply regret it has come to this. But I am afraid that unless Russia is persuaded to halt its military misadventure over Alaska and the Bering Strait, even greater catastrophe awaits us.” Fenner looked straight down the barrel of the camera. “President Navalny, withdraw your troops. The United States stands ready to use any and all of the weapons in its arsenal to defend its sovereign territory.

"My fellow citizens, the dangers to our country and the world will be overcome. We will pass through this time of peril and carry on the work of peace. We will defend our country and we will prevail.
"May God bless our country and all who defend her."

The camera faded to some shocked news anchors, mute for possibly the first time in their lives.

Carl turned down the sound, leaned back and whistled.

There was a very strict NSA rule about not using the organization’s bandwidth and resources for private purposes. Carl regarded it as more of a guideline. He wasn’t a big investor, but he had all of his non-401(K) savings invested in stocks. So yesterday, he had gotten HOLMES to analyze the likely impact on the stock market of a US nuclear weapons test in the context of the current conflict.

When he’d finished reading HOLMES conclusions, he’d gone straight online, sold everything he had, leveraged himself to the eyeballs and had bought gold. Not gold futures, or gold mining stocks, he’d bought real gold. 535,000 dollars’ worth in one ounce South African Krugerrand from a bullion dealer in Moscow, which were now stashed in a duffel bag under combination lock in the filing cabinet of his office. Because HOLMES conclusion had been that while a US nuclear test in itself wouldn’t necessarily mean Armageddon for the planet, it certainly would be the equivalent of a cosmic meteor strike on the stock market.

He sat and watched his screen for a few minutes as the Dow reacted to the Presidents’ address. Blood red numbers started filling one window. A second window showed the spot price for gold. OK, so that’s what the end of the world looks like. He turned the screen off. By the end of the day, if HOLMES projections were right, he’d be able to pay off his loans, and he’d still be a millionaire, even accounting for the spread when he tried to sell some of his 300 Krugerrand again.

Of course, there was the small matter of whether anyone would be alive to trade with, but he’d deal with that problem when he got there. Or not.



*
*

(C) 2018 Fred 'Heinkill' Williams. To Be Continued.

(PS for history buffs, the US President's speech above is fashioned on one made by John F Kennedy during the Cuban missile crisis... but much shorter because...Twitter generation)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EgdUgzAWcrw

Not sure how Holmes is getting his intel on this one. One of the keys to the SSBN part of the nuclear triad, is that literally the only people who know where a given boomer is, is the crew of said boomer. The Navy will have a patrol area that it's in, but the actual exact location is not known. I'm sure they can be order to give an position update, but that would be extremely rare/odd, as it violates all kinds of opsec. Something along the lines of a projected location with XX% certainty would be more accurate.

-Jenrick

Looking forward to the finale, thanks for another great read

Good catch and a good example of writing with an idea in your head and not getting it onto the page. The sub is surfaced, so that it can be seen on satellite by Russia for the launch as the point is a public demonstration, not a covert launch. But I shoulda said that as above.



The next chapter is called so I hope you aren't too attached to any particular characters!

H

Sadistic you

Surfacing 3 hour early is just asking for an air borne ASW asset to kill it. I can see it popping up say maybe 10-15 early for the plot point there. Another thing to consider sub launched munitions usually don't work unless fired from underwater. They are not normally designed to be launched from the open air.

-Jenrick

Interesting thought. Assuming they don't actually want to start WWIII would they hit a boomer? I guess you could also just fly some assets into the area to make a launch difficult.

The question is, can you afford NOT to hit a boomer that is about to launch a nuclear weapon on your territory, even if it's announced to be an uninhabited island. Boomers are strategic weapons. You don't do show of force with them, just like you don't with land based nuclear missiles, or bomber formations. The enemy knows that you have them, that's enough. A boomer has what, 24 nuclear missiles with eight warheads each?
Put yourself into the shoes of a Russian officer - the whole thing is about to escalate, but your leadership so far hasn't indicated that it's willing to back down. And here you have the option to
a) Strike at the enemy while he's busy making a mistake
b) eliminate 192 nuclear warheads in a single blow that are otherwise likely to be launched at your home country a day later (and that's all based on the unproven assumption that the enemy is telling the truth about his intentions)

Nope.
Keep that boomer well hidden.

ARMAGEDDON



When the President announced the American decision to give Russia a reminder of its nuclear capabilities over the North Pacific, Devlin McCarthy was sitting with the Russian Deputy Foreign Minister, Sergei Popov. She had requested an urgent appointment with Foreign Minister Kelnikov, but had been told he wasn’t available. At the same time as she was in the Foreign Ministry building, every single member of her Embassy staff with high level contacts was also in meetings with their Russian counterparts, waiting for the media bombshell to drop.
Popov was one of those stereotypical ‘ministry of anything’ bureaucrats, who never added anything to a conversation, but who occasionally nodded, smiled or frowned, meaning his body language was usually more telling than what he said. He was very overweight and if he wasn’t comfortable, began to sweat heavily. If he was angry, his round, smooth face would turn bright red. If he felt he was in a winning position in a discussion, he would audibly smirk like a vaudeville actor. And he had a very annoying habit of speaking in a derogatory way in Russian to his aides, about the very people he was meeting with, knowing that some of them spoke perfect Russian and understood everything he was saying.
The excuse McCarthy had used to call for the meeting was the demand, made that morning by President Fenner, for the immediate withdrawal of Russian forces from Saint Lawrence. Devlin knew the deadline of mid-day was neither practical, nor reasonable - not least because Russia was not acting alone but on behalf of a so-called coalition of nations in the Barents Euro Arctic Council. Popov had spent the first few minutes of their meeting making her aware of this, before advising that in any case, Russia had no intention of complying. He had then commented in Russian to his people, of which there were three sitting like nodding Easter Island statues, that ‘perhaps the dumb Americans should have thought through the consequences before they sank the Ozempic Tsar’. The Easter Islanders agreed.
It was around then when her telephone began buzzing in Devlin’s jacket pocket. “Excuse me,” she said, looking at the screen. “I think I need to take this. The American President is about to make an address to the nation. Shall we watch it together?” She logged onto the video feed and sat her phone on the table between them so that they could all see.
There was sudden consternation among the Russians as one of them suggested they should break off the meeting and perhaps reconvene after the President’s address. Another suggested to call off the meeting completely. By then, it was easier for them to remain and listen, out of fear of missing what the US President was saying.
As phrases like ‘nuclear missile test’, ‘North Pacific’ and ‘all weapons in our arsenal’ began to sink in, Devlin studied Popov carefully. She had seen the text of the President’s address before going into the meeting, so she knew what to expect. The Russians listened in complete silence, but the shock on Popov’s face was not just clear, it was palpable. It emanated from his every pore. Gone were his brash overconfidence, his dismissive asides to his aides. Beads of sweat peppered his forehead after the first few sentences, and by the end of the Presidential address he had reached for a handkerchief to wipe them away.
As the President concluded, Popov stood up, “I must consult with the Minister,” he said and started gathering his papers.
“Please tell him that at this stage, it is just a weapons test,” Devlin said. “What happens next, is in your hands.”
“Just a…” Popov said, biting off his words. But he could not contain himself. “It is a declaration of war! Nuclear war! Has America gone mad?!”
“It was not us who invaded your territory and attacked your air force,” Devlin said, deliberately goading him.
“You… you sunk our freighter, made cyber-attack on our submarine, launched cruise missiles at our legitimate peacekeeping forces. Now you threaten us with nuclear war!” His hands were shaking as he stuffed papers into his briefcase, shaking so badly in fact that an aide took the papers and the briefcase from him.
He really believes it, Devlin realized. The Kremlin propagandists had done their job well. This is how a nation is duped into war.
Now Popov’s look changed from anger to … what? Sadness? “This meeting is over. Someone will show you out,” Popov said. He walked to the door with his people. “Our military will not ignore this provocation. You have just doomed yourselves, and perhaps the entire world.”

*
*

“Lie down, just lie still,” Dave said, kneeling behind Perri, holding him around the shoulders and easing him to the floor of the water tank. Blood stained his shirt just above his belt. “We have to get out. We have to get to into town and get you some help.”
“Check… the guy… outside,” Perri said through gritted teeth.
Dave lay him down and Perri curled up on his side, knees to his chest. Stepping carefully to a bullet hole at eye level on the side the shooting had come from, he peered out.
There was no one there. He saw blood on the ground though. He walked slowly around the tank, as quietly as he could, peering through bullet and shrapnel holes. The Russian had disappeared.
“He’s gone. I think you hit him.”
“You have to get out,” Perri said.
“We both have to…”
“You go,” Perri said. “I can’t move.”
“I can’t just leave you here. You’re bleeding!” Dave said plaintively.
“Bleed worse… if I try to walk,” Perri said.
Dave looked outside again. There was still no sign of the Russian. “I can’t leave you lying here.” What can I do? He crouched and reconnected the radio, fumbling with unfamiliar wires before it came to life.
“Sarge, this is uh, White Bear, Sarge, are you there?” he asked. “Come in Sarge!”
He had to repeat himself three times, when finally the Mountie’s voice came on, “White Bear? This is Sarge. Is everything OK?”
“Yeah everything is fine. Except it isn’t. We ran into a Russian soldier and Perri has been shot. In the guts. What should I do?”
“Dave, are you safe?” Sarge asked. “First you have to get to somewhere safe.”
“I think so, I think the Russian is gone. Perri shot him,” he said.
“Stay on the line, I am patching you through to emergency services,” Sarge said. Perri listened in as Sarge called what sounded like a 911 number, explained who he was and told the paramedic he was dealing with a gunshot wound in a foreign country. He came back on, “OK Dave, putting you through.”
It sounded like Sarge was holding the radio microphone up to a speakerphone. “Dave, is that your name?” a paramedic asked, sounding like he was talking from a fish bowl.
“Yeah.”
“I’m going to ask you a lot of questions Dave and for now I just want you to give me short answers,
OK?”
“Yes.”
“Is your friend conscious?”
“Yes.”
“Is he breathing?”
“Yeah.”
“Can he speak?”
“Perri? Can you talk on the radio?”
“Hurts…” Perri said. “Thirsty.”
“He can, but he says it hurts. And he’s thirsty,” Dave said, reaching for a water bottle on the floor of the tank.
“No! Don’t give him anything to drink. OK?” Dave put the bottle back down.
“Yeah.”
“OK. Tell me where your friend was shot.”
“In the stomach, just above his waist.”
“Can you see blood anywhere else? Look carefully.” Dave checked Perri all over.
“I don’t think so.”
“Can you get his shirt open and have a look at the wound for me?”
“He’s all curled up.”
“You need to be careful, but I need you to have a look for the bullet wound and describe it to me Dave. Can you do that?”
“Yeah. Just wait.” He put down the radio handset and pulled aside Perri’s jacket, then gingerly unbuttoned Perri’s shirt, his fingertips slipping on the buttons because of the blood. Perri had his arms around his waist and Dave had to lift one away. He saw a small neat hole off to the left of Perri’s belly button, leaking blood. “OK, he’s been shot down near his belt,” Dave said. “Between his belly button and his hip.”
“Is it a hole, or is it sliced open?”
“Hole.”
“Is it bleeding?”
“A bit.”
“This is important Dave. Is the blood pulsing out, or is it just leaking out?”
“Uh, leaking I think. Not really pulsing,” he said. “It’s not really bleeding that much.”
“Is it bright red, or dark red?”
“Uh, a bit hard to see in here, dark I think,” he said. “Wait.” He reached into his backpack and pulled out a torch. Shining it on the wound he saw dark red blood leaking slowly out. “Dark. Is that good or bad?”
“Neither,” the man said. “Can you check his back for me, see if there is a bullet wound there too?”
“OK,” Dave checked Perri’s back, rolled him over a little, peeled off one arm of his jacket and lifted his shirt. He winced. “Yeah. There’s another hole, a bigger one, in his side near his hip.” It looked like the bullet had expanded on its way through and the hole at the back looked like something that had been made with an ice pick. From the inside.
“Is he still breathing? Is he still conscious?”
“Perri? How you doing buddy?”
“Still … here,” Perri said.
“Yeah, he is.”
“OK, keep an eye on him, tell me if anything changes in his breathing or if he loses consciousness. You are going to put a bandage around his stomach to get some pressure on those wounds, but not too much. Do you know how to do that? Do you have a wound dressing, or something you can use as a bandage?”
“I guess,” Dave said. “I’ve got some clothes here.”
The paramedic talked him through it as he tore up a shirt, wadded part of it into pads to put over the bullet holes and then bound it in place by tying the strips of shirt into a bandage and winding them around Perri’s waist. As he did it, the paramedic had him check on Perri constantly and give him a better description of where the wounds were. When he was finished, he asked again, “Perri, how you doing man?”
“Been shot Dave,” the boy replied with his jaw clenched, eyes closed.
“He’s still with us,” Dave told the paramedic.
“Right. You can’t do any more right now. You need to get him to a hospital. He may have been shot in the intestines, or he may have been lucky and the bullet has just passed through his dorsal hip muscles, I can’t say.”
“I can’t just ‘get him to a hospital’!” Dave said. “Dude, I am hiding in a water tank in the middle of a bombed out city surrounded by freaking Russian storm troopers!”
There was a pause at the other end. “Dave, I understand. I need you to calm down and listen,” the paramedic said.
Dave took a deep breath. “Ok, ok, I’m listening, but this is no normal hunting accident, you got that?”
“I understand. Your friend is losing blood. He might have internal bleeding too. He might stabilize, or he could go into shock and die. Even if he stabilizes, he will almost certainly have infection, and that can kill him too. If you can’t get him out, you need to bring medical help to him, urgently. Is there a doctor you can go to for help?”
“You don’t understand! The whole town is being held prisoner!” Dave said. “If there is a doctor, he’s Russian. Sarge are you there? Sarge what are we going to do?!”
The paramedic started to talk again, but Sarge broke in over the top of him.
“Dave, you have no choice,” the Mountie said. “You have to go to the Russians and ask them for help.”
“You are kidding me! We blew up their ammo dump in Gambell, we just shot one of their guys.”
“They probably don’t know that. You find them, you tell them you were hiding out in those ruins and you were scared and you shot Perri by mistake.”
“And I’ll be a prisoner, and he’ll be dead.”
“Or they’ll help. There’s a chance. It’s his only chance.”
“Damn Sarge,” Dave whined.
“Go…blubber brain,” Perri said, listening to them.
Dave looked down at him, he was still lying curled up, eyes closed, breathing slowly. “You’re the one got shot, blubber brain,” Dave said. But Perri was breathing more raggedly now, almost panting in short shallow gasps. “OK, ok. I’ll go.” He logged off the radio, took off his own jacket, then worked Perri’s arms into it and pulled it tight around him, zipping it up. With a grimace he pulled Perri’s blood stained jacket on, then put his rifle over his shoulder and patted Perri on the back. “Hang in buddy.”
“Water…” Perri said.
“I can’t man, sorry,” Dave said, moving the water bottle out of reach. “Doctor’s orders.” Then he put a foot on the ladder and began to climb.

*
*



Private Zubkhov watched as the hatch at the top of the water tank opened. He had heard what sounded like a radio conversation within the tank, but was too far away to hear what the Americans were saying. After the exchange of fire he’d crawled away from the tank and hidden himself in a destroyed building about fifty feet away.
That goddamned radio.
It was the second time the American had shot him. This time the slug had buried itself in his upper thigh, tearing through his leg muscle, but luckily missing his artery. He’d scrambled for cover, dragging himself into the ruins on his one good leg before he collapsed. Inside the ruin he’d tied a tourniquet around his leg to stop the bleeding, and checked his ammunition. He had his rifle, five clips, but couldn’t hold it to aim it for a damn. His sidearm and three clips. Not that he could do much with a sidearm from this far away, shooting with his wrong hand.
So he watched helplessly as the American climbed out of the water tank and started down the side, looking around him as he did. Smart guy. Sneaky guy. It had all gone sideways quickly but all he could remember was the guy coming up out of the hatch in the tank and then opening fire on him. He’d returned fire, but had had no idea where to aim and had been shooting with his bad hand so his aim had been wild.
As Zubkhov watched him, the only satisfaction he got was the sight of the blood on the man’s shirt. So, he’d wounded the ba*tard. Not that he looked like it bothered him. The man reached the platform on which the water tank was mounted, threw his rifle down and then jumped down, without any apparent difficulty. Zubkhov lifted up his sidearm and sighted on him as he picked up his rifle. “Bang bang, you’re dead,” Zubkhov said quietly, as the man straightened up, looked around again, and then jogged off toward Savoonga township. He lowered his Makarov.
For the second time, Zubkhov watched as the American soldier escaped. The guy was a freaking Baba Yaga, some kind of unkillable spirit monster.
Yeah? Well, Zubkhov was still alive too. And in what was left of the decreasingly rational part of the mind of Private Zubkhov of 14th Special Purpose Brigade, 282nd Squadron, he was still operational and his mission objective was in reach.
The American had not taken the radio with him.
OK, so he wasn’t going to be able to make it back to Gambell, but his buddy could just as easily pick him up somewhere near Savoonga. Zubkhov was going to get that damned radio if it killed him.

*
*

(C) 2018 Fred 'Heinkill' Williams. To Be Continued.

Devlin’s car was navigating itself through the streets of a city that had gone mad. People were running, everywhere. They were running out of their offices and workplaces. They were running towards supermarkets and kiosks. They were running down the road with bags heavy with canned food and bottled water. Devlin closed her eyes, and swallowed the lump in her throat. She understood the people running home to be with their loved ones, but why were people queuing outside the shops? How did you shop for an apocalypse?
On the back seat of the limo, she began composing her message to State. It would be in short sparse sentences, as would the reports of all her people. There was no time for elegant prose, or making a collective report. State wanted raw, real-time feedback on the responses of the Russian nomenklatura.
Devlin’s report looked like this:
Met with Deputy Foreign Minister Sergei Popov in his offices and watched the Presidential address in his company.
He appeared shocked.
He called the nuclear weapons test ‘a declaration of war’
He accused the US of starting the conflict with the sinking of the Olympic Tsar and appears to believe the Russian version of the story that the US was behind this sinking.
He said the Russian military would be bound to respond to the nuclear test and that the USA had just ‘doomed itself’.
He then terminated the meeting.
She was about to hit ‘send’ when the car swerved around a group of people in the street and she saw them putting a large pole through the window of a closed shop, smashing the glass. Up ahead, traffic was at a complete standstill.
She returned to add to her message:
Moscow’s civil administration has declared a State of Emergency. There is panic in the streets, hoarding of food, looting of shops. On return to the embassy I will initiate a lockdown. Local staff will be allowed/required to leave, all US personnel ordered to return to the compound. All available security personnel will be put on the entrances with orders to admit no Russian nationals, whether civilian, police or military.
I will be authorizing armed security personnel to use lethal force to protect the embassy if needed.
“Ma’am?” her head of security said as the car jerked to a stop. Several people standing in the middle of the road were looking at the car; even though they had removed the traditional US flags from the wings, it still carried diplomatic plates. “My GPS says traffic is gridlocked. Looks like the whole city is trying to evacuate. I suggest we go the rest of the way on foot.”
“Very well.” Devlin hit ‘send’, then grabbed her briefcase.
The driver reached over and handed her his black knee length coat, “Take this ma’am.”
She smiled at him, “Thanks David, I’ll be warm enough.”
“No ma’am, to cover your clothes. This isn’t a neighborhood you want to be seen walking around in a red power suit.”

*
*

“You warm enough?” Bunny asked Bondarev. “Sitting comfortably?”
“Enough Lieutenant,” Rodriguez said. They’d tied up Bondarev and then dragged the bodies of the dead Spetsnaz troopers into a store room leading off the tool room that was their ‘keep’. Bunny had searched him and confiscated a small first aid kit, survival blanket, map and satellite telephone from the pockets of his flight suit.
Rodriguez pointed her gun at him, “How many men do you have up top?”
“Enough that you would run out of bullets before I ran out of men,” Bondarev told her.
“The last bullet would be for you, tough guy,” Bunny said. Bondarev looked at the young pilot. He recognized her as the one who had shot the man who was surrendering. He had little doubt she was speaking the truth.
“You have no way out of here,” Bondarev said to the senior officer. “You fought a good war. But your war is over. You can’t hold me hostage for ever. Let me contact my men, I will guarantee you are treated according to the conventions for prisoners of war.”
O’Hare laughed bitterly. “Because you are so respectful of conventions,” she snarled. “Like the convention against the use of massive ordnance air blast weapons, like the convention against the use of cluster munitions, oh and the convention against invading foreign countries? How about that one?”
Bondarev ignored her, kept his eyes fixed on her superior, “The Spetsnaz overhead would have protocols if contact is lost with their recon squad down here. They would be preparing, right now, to react to this situation. You were lucky once, you won’t be lucky again. And I don’t want to get killed in the crossfire.”
Rodriguez knew that what he was saying held a lot of truth. They had dealt with the first Russian force that had entered the Rock, but what about the next, and the one after that? She and O’Hare had not expected to survive the Russian assault, they certainly hadn’t expected to find themselves back in control, and with a Russian air force Colonel as their hostage as well. She had no doubt the troops topside were preparing a plan to come in and find out what had happened to their comrades. And when they came, they would come in hard and hot. It would not be a recon force they sent.
The only option Rodriguez saw was to trade this Colonel for their own safety.
It was as though O’Hare could read her mind. She looked sharply at Rodriguez, “No way ma’am, you can’t be…”
She didn’t finish her sentence. They had emptied the Russian’s pockets and Bondarev’s telephone was in a bag at her feet. It started ringing.

*
*



“The telephone is still switched on, and receiving,” HOLMES said. “Would you like me to call again?”
“Yes please,” Devlin said. She had arrived at the Embassy, got herself waved through by several nervous Marines, to find Williams standing at the gates.
“Carl,” she had said. “Whatever this is, will have to wait. I have a million…”
“HOLMES picked up a report that the Russians have scrambling two TU-162 strategic nuclear bombers from Vladivostok,” he said. “Their target is Anchorage in Alaska. Don’t ask me how he knows that. They’ll be airborne in five minutes.”
Devlin had put her hands behind her head and looked up at the leaden grey skies. The world had gone crazy. “Carl, what do you want me to do about that? If HOLMES knows, NORAD knows and they’ll probably try to intercept them.”
“There is not a single US aircraft that can get there in time,” Carl had said urgently. “Russia has air superiority over the Alaska theatre.”
Her head was spinning. She had nearly yelled at him, “So? So what Carl?!”
“Call Bondarev again,” he’d said. “Appeal to him. Maybe he can stop the bombers. He’s operational commander in the Russian OA”
“Carl, you heard him, he hung up on me. His fighters are probably escorting those bombers.”
“Then he’s in the perfect position to shoot them down. Fenner authorizing a nuclear test over the Pacific was dumb, but Russia ordering a nuclear attack on Anchorage in response is totally insane. He must see that.” He looked at her like a man trying to talk a suicidal jumper off a rooftop, and that was more or less how she felt.
But five minutes later she was standing in his office once again, listening to a telephone ring somewhere in the Arctic.
“Hello?” a voice replied. It was not Bondarev. It was a woman. “Who is this?” the woman at the other end demanded brusquely. Speaking English?
“Uh, this is Ambassador Devlin McCarthy, of the US Embassy in Moscow,” Devlin replied, unable to keep the confusion out of her voice. “I am trying to get in contact with Colonel Yevgeny Bondarev of the …”
“Uh huh. You’re the US Ambassador in Moscow?” the woman asked in an American accent. “And I'm a Disney Princess. What do you want with the Colonel?”
“I … need to speak with him urgently on State business,” Devlin said. “Can you please connect me?”
“He’s a little tied up right now…” the woman said. Then Devlin heard a muffled conversation and a new voice came on the line.
“This is Lieutenant Commander Alicia Rodriguez of the US Navy,” the voice said. “Ambassador, you need to find a way to authenticate yourself before I can even begin to believe you are who you are.”
McCarthy frowned, an American navy officer? On Bondarev’s telephone? Devlin looked helplessly at Williams sitting across the desk from her.
He took a breath, put his hand on Devlin’s to calm her. “Commander Rodriguez, this is Carl Williams of the NSA. Please stay on the line and listen carefully. HOLMES, can you please pull up the service record of US Navy Lieutenant Commander Alicia Rodriguez and put it on my screen?”
“Yes Carl. I have three possible candidates, putting the best match on screen now.”
Williams scanned the screen quickly. “Commander, your current assignment is to a unit called NCTAMS-A4 on Little Diomede Island, a CNAF black facility that is classified Top Secret Warling Orcon, your previous assignment was as mini-boss aboard the USS Trump and uh let’s see … sixteen years ago you were docked two weeks’ pay for returning late from a shore leave in Hawaii.”
The silence at the other end didn’t last long, “Put the Ambassador back on.”
“Commander, McCarthy here. I need to speak with Colonel Bondarev urgently, is he with you?”
“Yes ma’am, but we are in a difficult situation here, we…”
“Commander!” Devlin barked. “Get off this damn phone and put that Russian Colonel on, now.”

*
*

Rodriguez held the phone away from her ear as the woman on the other end shouted, and then put it on speakerphone, moving it closer to Bondarev, “Ambassador Devlin McCarthy, for you.”
Bondarev frowned; he had no real choice but to listen. “Colonel Bondarev here. Is this about my daughter again?”
“No. Colonel, were you aware the US is about to conduct a nuclear weapons test in the North Pacific ocean?”
Bondarev didn’t react. “No, I was not. And I have no reason to believe you.”
“It was announced about 30 minutes ago on worldwide media. But if you aren’t aware, you may also not be aware that your air force has scrambled two Tu-162 strategic bombers and they are en-route to conduct a retaliatory attack on Anchorage in Alaska, as we speak?”
Now Bondarev reacted. He paled, visibly. “I do not believe you.”
“I am not asking you to,” the Ambassador said. “But I am asking you to stop them somehow if it is true. For the sake of your daughter. For the sake of the world.”
Bondarev thought quickly, “Will the US stop its nuclear test?”
“I can’t promise that,” Devlin said. “That is the honest truth. It isn’t in my power.”
“Assuming you are telling the truth - you are about to detonate a nuclear weapon, but you want me to stop our response to your attack?” he said, incredulously.
“We are about to conduct a demonstration,” she said. “Your bombers are about to respond by attacking a city of 200,000 innocent people. Only a monster could see that as a proportionate response. And I can’t believe my daughter would have chosen a monster to be the father of her child.”
Bondarev thought again. “How much time do we have?”
“HOLMES?” Devlin asked.
“23 minutes to release point, Ambassador,” Bondarev heard an English voice intone.
To Rodriguez he said, urgently, “I am going to give you a number. Hang up this line, and then call the number as I read it to you.”
“Ambassador?” Rodriguez asked.
“Do as he says Lieutenant Commander,” Devlin said. “You heard what’s at stake. Good luck Colonel Bondarev.”
“I promise nothing,” Bondarev said. As the call was disconnected he turned to Rodriguez, “Double 0, seven, nine zero two, four eight two, eight four one, four zero.”
Before she hit the connect button, the American hesitated, “How do I know you aren’t just calling those troops up above.”
“You don’t,” Bondarev told her. “But you are welcome to listen, if you speak Russian.” He waited.
She connected him.

*
*



At Savoonga airfield it was one of Arkady Arsharvin’s staff who noticed his telephone ringing. The sound went unnoticed among the clamor of voices in the air field’s operations room until the telephone buzzed itself off Arsharvin’s desk and onto the floor. One of his people picked it up and handed it to him. When he saw who it was, he took the phone and went out into the corridor to find an empty room. He called back immediately.
“Yevgeny!” he said. “They said you’d been shot down! Why are you…”
“Yes,” Bondarev replied. “Listen, Arkady…”
“Yevgeny, it’s crazy here. You lost nearly a full squadron up there! Sukhois, Migs… there is a total command vacuum with you gone. Akinfeev is missing too, so Captain Komarov is technically in command of the 5983rd. Komarov! He…”
“Arkady, shut up!” Bondarev said. “Is it true the Americans plan to set off a nuclear weapon in the North Pacific? Yes or no?”
“Yes,” Arsharvin said. “Their president announced it. The test takes place in twenty minutes off the Kurils if they keep their word.”
“And we are planning a nuclear attack on Anchorage in response?”
Arsharvin blinked, how could he possibly know? Where was he? “Yes. Potemkin authorized the attack. Ilyushins of the 21st Guards will be on station in about fifteen minutes. We have no way of knowing the American missile isn’t aimed at a mainland target. If the Americans do carry out their nuclear launch, our bombers will get the release codes. The minute they confirm target destruction, our airborne troops and Spetsnaz will move on Nome. It is madness.”
“Potemkin can’t authorize a nuclear attack,” Bondarev said.
“No, but Defense Minister Burkhin and Potemkin together can. There’s some sort of #%&*$# going down in the Kremlin Yevgeny. My people tell me President Navalny hasn’t been seen or heard from since the American President went on air, and Foreign Minister Kelnikov is under FSB guard.”
Bondarev’s voice at the other end of the line was cold, and calm. “It’s a coup Arkady. This whole thing, sinking the Olympic Tsar, the attack on Alaska, it’s about more than just water resources. I knew something was wrong. It stank a mile away.”
Arsharvin thought hard, “But … they’re going to nuke an American city? Why?”
“Think it through Arkady!” Bondarev’s voice was urgent. “The Americans set off their nuke, the General Staff demand a nuclear response, but President Navalny refuses, Kelnikov refuses. Of course they do! Burkhin has his excuse to take Navalny out and the other Generals will back him. I guarantee as soon as our nukes hit, Burkhin will be consolidating power and trying to negotiate a cease fire with the Americans.”
“The Americans will not allow a nuclear attack on Anchorage to go unanswered,” Arsharvin argued. “There will be all out nuclear war!”
“Maybe not,” Bondarev said. “The Americans let us take Saint Lawrence. They gave up the airspace over Alaska. If they really wanted to make a point, they could have nuked the Baltic Fleet base in Kaliningrad, but instead, they’re going to vaporize a few square miles of seawater and fish. Their leaders have become weak and Burkhin is betting they’ll take his cease fire and give him Alaska. He gets the Presidency, and Russia gets its fresh water. He’s suddenly President and a national hero.”
Arsharvin pulled air through his teeth. “I see it now,” he said. Arsharvin had no love for President Navalny or Foreign Minister Kelnikov and their faction of West leaning, pro-democracy liberals. But neither did he want to bet his future on an insane roll of the dice by some power crazed madmen in Moscow. “What the hell can we do Yevgeny?”
“Get ready to start calling in every favor everyone ever owed you,” Bondarev told him. “And back me when the time comes, alright?”
“You know I will,” Arsharvin said. The line went dead.

What had he just done? He had either agreed to be a patriot, or a traitor. And he wouldn't know how his country would judge him until tomorrow dawned.

*
*

(C) 2018 Fred 'Heinkill' Williams. To Be Continued

Awwwwwww cmon, end this cliffhanger NOW, I won’t be able to sleep !!!!!!

This is a story about UCAVs. There's still that last UCAV on the launch rails.


It's stitting there for a narrative purpose.

What UCAV? Didn’t I blow that up? Pretty sure I meant to. No Hollywood happy endings here old son...

Just when I was going to bed with a new hope

Unless... wait a minute ...

WANT TO SEE HOW IT ENDS? READERS OF THIS THREAD GET THE FULL FIRST DRAFT FOR FREE NOW!



ePUB or MOBI version for eBook readers, PDF for tablets or PCs. Excuse any typos and small formatting errors, you are getting this first draft hot off the press!

LINK TO BOOK HERE
https://dl.bookfunnel.com/g4fdazides

You will see a placeholder in the novel for a 'thankyou' section to people who read along with this thread and who have helped with invaluable technical advice, proof errors, continuity issues or just general good vibes! Please PM me with your preferred name for this page so I can get you in there...



The link above will redirect you to the Bookfunnel free book distribution page, where you can get the book sent to an email address. Don't worry, the email addresses are NOT sold to spammers, I will use them to make a mailing list so that I can keep you up to date on news about the project such as the final release date! The next step from here will be to rewrite it, incorporating all the good advice received over the past weeks, edit, proof and then lay the book out for eBook and print publishing. How long will that take? I estimate it will be ready in time for summer holidays unless RL gets crazy.

I hope you will support the project by spreading word about the project far and wide as the objective here is to raise money both for SimHQ and charity. You can send this page link to friends so that they can also download an advance copy.

And thanks again for a lot of fun along the way!

(c) 2018 Fred 'Heinkill' Williams, writing as Tim Slee. Other books available here!

LOL

My LOL was for your previous post.

Great ending IMHO, to a great story. Thank you for sharing it.

Just use Nixer for me, no credit needed though.

edit: can't find on amazon to review it.