Authors: Christopher Nuttall
“I’m not surprised,” Marine Colonel Patrick Trombly snapped. The civilians might have escaped some of the chaos, but the criminal gangs who had been trying to use Ostend as a place to send refugees to England had been terrorising the entire region as they offered their services…at the cost of everything the refugees owned. The Royal Navy had been working hard to steer the refugees to camps in Britain; some of the criminals had been literally dumping the refugees overboard as soon as they were out of sight of the coastline, and then coming back for more. “Remind the advance parties that they are not to go into Ostend itself; I’m not wasting lives fighting people in the city.”
“Yes, sir,” Captain Bellamy said. He snapped out orders as more units arrived on the beach, heavy anti-aircraft units and light tanks, improved enough that they could exchange blows with Russian tanks on a fairly equal basis. They would be disintegrated if the Russians hit them, but they would get in at least one punch first; Trombly wasn’t happy at all about having them, but if the Russians reached them before they managed to pull out, they would need their firepower just to buy themselves a fighting chance. “There’s more refugees than we expected…”
“Have them kept well away from the beaches,” Trombly said, grimly. He had been on the ground during the retreat from Sudan and knew what would happen; desperate refugees would overwhelm his men through sheer weight of numbers if they thought that they were being abandoned. “We can pull out some refugees if we have time, but the main problem is withdrawing the remains of British forces before they get overwhelmed.”
He stared down at the display on the terminal in his hand. Major-General Langford had put out a request to shipping, and even he had been surprised at the response; hundreds of smaller ships had volunteered for the mission to Ostend. Britain’s merchant marine was no longer what it once had been; the attempt to replay Dunkirk would be much harder than it had been back in 1940…and that had not been easy. The Royal Marines had studied Dunkirk extensively and knew that repeating it would be tricky; the Germans had allowed the British the time they needed to escape. The Russians…might not make the same mistake.
The skies were clear; that wouldn’t last. Higher command had decided that if the RAF made a serious commitment to covering Ostend, the Russians would realise what was happening sooner and bring the full weight of their air force to bear on the evacuation ships. The nightmare would have no end; if the Russians managed to sink a dozen heavy ships, the remains of British forces would be trapped on the shore. He needed time…and Marine Colonel Patrick Trombly knew that time was the one thing the Russians wouldn’t give him.
A soldier ran up to him and nodded once; Marines were forbidden to salute anywhere where there might be an enemy sniper, looking for targets, such as senior officers. “Sir, the Yanks are here, and ten cunts,” he reported. “They were coming down the road when they met us…”
Trombly smiled. He hadn’t expected that that part of the mission would have worked; Belgium seemed to be as chaotic as the remainder of Europe. “Have them all checked, searched, and then moved to one of the helicopters returning to Britain,” he said. He smiled at the thought of the poor American explaining his travelling companions to his own people back in the States, or even in Britain; perhaps the girls were important, but he doubted it. “All we have to do here is wait.”
“Yes, sir,” the soldier said, and dashed off again.
“Well, fuck me rigid,” Captain Bellamy said. “You know…I really thought that would fail
and they wouldn't make it…”
“Let’s just hope the government drives a hard bargain,” Trombly said grimly. The thought of what might happen if – after – Europe fell worried him. Britain was weaker than it had been in centuries. “This is not going to end well.”
The German is either at your throat…or at your feet
.
Winston Churchill
The Lord Mayor of Hanover was a weak man.
He had,
Shalenko knew, been lucky enough to be out of the city when the missiles had blown the New Town Hall of Hanover to bits, and had been somehow able to calm most of the rioting in the city…for a few days. The chaos had started again as the Russian Army had blown through yet another desperate last stand and started its march on Hanover; hundreds of German soldiers and reservists had dug into the city, daring the Russians to enter the city. They had no supplies, no hope in the long run, but if they could smash up his forces…
It had been the reservists presence that had allowed the Lord Mayor, Paul Steiner, to put an end to some of the chaos. Hanover had a large community of different ethnic groups and the chaos had seriously damaged half of the city, but the German soldiers had managed to put most of it down, or at least contained to some sections of the city, rather than the entire city. The Russian soldiers who had surrounded the city had started to turn back refugees; Steiner had been forced to face the unpleasant fact that his city would starve before too long…if the Russians didn’t attack it and reduce it to rubble.
“You have an obligation, under the Geneva Convention, to let civilians go,” Steiner protested, when he came to meet the Russian besiegers. “You can’t keep them trapped in the city…”
Shalenko smiled. He had read the FSB’s briefing on the Mayer carefully. He had been a stout Green, someone who could always be counted upon to pass laws concerning the environment in Germany…and a total novice when it came to military matters. Steiner had been considered a safe pair of hands for Hanover by the Greens; there was no way that they would have allowed him into the rarefied heights of German National Government, or even the European Parliament.
“Actually, I can,” Shalenko said. He took no pleasure in ensuring that the city was starved into submission – or death – but it was better than feeding his men into a meat-grinder. The British might have joked about being sporting enough to let the enemy do the killing, but Shalenko had always considered the joke disgusting; his soldiers were a priceless resource. Hanover wasn't a threat, but if the Germans had some armoured units in the city, they could come out and hit his rear. “The Convention doesn’t actually say
when
I have to let them out, does it?”
Steiner said nothing. Shalenko’s lips twisted;
Felix
Steiner had been an SS officer and a brave fighter, commanding soldiers in battle personally. His distant descendent had none of the spine that had allowed Felix
Steiner to stand up to Adolph Hitler himself. He was at home with the law…but the law was gone, replaced only by the invading army and the Russian occupation forces that were either occupying cities, or surrounding them and waiting for them to surrender. Shalenko wouldn’t have given much for the fate of the Germans who had to be forced into submission; the FSB units had a reputation for brutality.
“I am quite within my rights to let them all starve to force you to surrender,” Shalenko said calmly. “You must understand; your position is hopeless, there will be no forces coming to your relief, no force that can break the blockade around your city. I will fire on your people if they attempt to leave…this is not Qom, when various factions tried to fly in supplies to the city and the Americans refused to fire on them. Your position is hopeless.”
Steiner wilted. “I understand,” he said. Shalenko wondered what advice he had been getting from the German soldiers trapped inside the city. “What do you want?”
Shalenko started to tick points off on his fingers. “First, you will tell your soldiers to lay down their arms and surrender,” he said. “We will treat them decently provided they surrender and assist us to disarm any surprises that they might have created for us; any further resistance will be considered a breach of the agreement and responded to with maximum force. Second, you will disarm your policemen and order them to assist us in keeping the city calm; our units will take up policing duties as soon as possible. Third, you will warn the civilian population that any resistance, either in the form of armed attack or civil disobedience, will be treated as a breach of the surrender agreement and punished harshly. Finally, you will provide us with all possible assistance in working Hanover back into the national infrastructure and using it to support the advance.”
Steiner stared at him, trying to deny reality. “And if we refuse?”
“We will take your city by force and sack it,” Shalenko lied cheerfully. He would wait for them all to starve if he had no other choice; FSB units could maintain the blockade when he moved his armoured and infantry units west again. “I invite you to consider just how many of your people would die if I stormed the city.”
Steiner’s face was pale. “In that case,” he said finally, “I will surrender the city. Please be aware that the behaviour of your troops will be recorded for possible future action by international agencies such as Amnesty International and…”
“And exactly what do you think they can do about it?” Shalenko asked dryly. “My soldiers will behave themselves, or they will end up in the penal units; the FSB troops, on the other hand…”
He smiled. “Better keep your people under control.”
“That went well,” Captain Anna Ossipavo said, as the bent back of the Lord Mayor headed back towards his city. “Colonel Boris Aliyev has arrived and is asking for an immediate meeting with you.”
“Is he?” Shalenko asked. Aliyev had done well in Poland, but since the airport had been relieved by the armoured units of 2
nd
Shock Army, his unit had been on the sidelines, waiting. Shalenko guessed that Aliyev wasn't happy about that; the man was a soldier though and though. “I need a briefing first.”
Anna nodded as they walked back towards the command vehicle, carefully concealed in a thatch of trees. “The forces probing into the Netherlands are reporting that the city of Wilhelmshaven has fallen to our forces, although there is a great deal of uncoordinated resistance in the Netherlands itself, some of it from Muslim factions that we armed, as opposed to the remains of the Dutch forces. We have pushed to within ten kilometres of Switzerland, but as per your orders, we haven’t gone any closer to their border.”
Shalenko checked the mental map in his head and smiled. Switzerland had retained its neutrality and its paranoia about outsiders; every Swiss was still expected to have a gun and training in how to use it. It would take fifty divisions to hammer the Swiss into submission and the planners had decided that they could leave the Swiss alone for a while, perhaps even permanently if something satisfactory could be worked out. The Czech Republic’s decision to switch sides had started the dominos falling; entire countries were considering what they could gain from offering their submission to the Russian Federation.
“The worrying point is that the British are up to something in Ostend,” Anna continued. “The Royal Marines made a major landing there two days ago; we believe that they secured the area and are using it to evacuate what they can in the way of their forces and perhaps other European forces as well.”
Shalenko bit off a curse. The British forces had been chased back across the continent along with the other European forces, but if they managed to get across the Channel, it would be several weeks before the final stage of Operation Stalin could be mounted; they would have the chance that the rest of Europe had not. If they pulled out and rearmed the other European forces, the Russians might find themselves facing a resistance movement in their rear before they were ready to deal with it.
They reached the command vehicle and Shalenko immediately reached for a map. The Germans had used that terrain before to slow up an invading army; the Allies had had to grind their way through the terrain step by step. The Dutch could do any number of interesting things to slow an invading army; if there were German forces digging in, they might even buy the British enough time to complete the evacuation.
The display was warning of new threats. A French force was slowly pulling itself together in Lorraine, near the French border, the last significant force on the European continent. The French were scoring some successes against the Algerians; the odds were that the French command either didn’t know anything about the situation in the south, or the damned Americans had tipped them off to the real threat. They would be short on fuel and ammunition – their logistics train would have been shot to hell – but they had to be crushed while they presented such a tempting target…
Anna paused as a signal came in. “That’s the Germans laying down their arms now,” she said. “The occupation units are requesting permission to enter the city.”
“Granted,” Shalenko said, still thinking. For the first time since the campaign had begun, he had too many tasks and too few men in the correct position to handle them…and there were political implications. If he crushed the French force that was massing in Lorraine, he would be able to overrun the remainder of Europe, but if the British forces, such as they were, got away, the conflict would become a lot harder to bring to a successful conclusion. “Order the reconnaissance units to press on towards Belgium, advancing as quickly as they can; let me know what resistance they meet. The main force is to prepare to advance into France as soon as it can be organised.”
“Yes, sir,” Anna said. “What about Colonel Aliyev?”
Shalenko scowled. “I’ll see him now,” he said. He climbed out of the command vehicle and glanced around; he could hear the distant noise of the occupation forces moving into Hanover. It would be a dangerous few hours for everyone involved; a single shot could lead to a slaughter. That would be very bad for the future; the important matter was to ensure that they were firmly in control of their territorial gains before imposing their own system on Europe.
Aliyev was standing, watching a line of tanks advancing onwards towards France, heavy helicopter support flying overhead, searching for targets. The paratrooper looked very tired, but still professional; in his uniform, he was one of the deadliest men that Shalenko had ever seen. He was proud of Aliyev; the man had had a difficult mission and had carried it out flawlessly. If the Poles had been just a little quicker to react…
“Colonel,” Shalenko said. It was the first time they had met since the war began. “You did well in Poland.”
Aliyev snapped off a salute. “Sir, with all due respect, my men and I need a mission,” he said, insistently. “We are losing our edge just standing around doing nothing.”
“I was unaware that this was the sort of army where officers chose their own missions,” Shalenko said, eyeing him darkly. Aliyev showed no reaction; the elite rarely showed any reaction to such issues. “Your unit is irreplaceable.”
Aliyev stared at him. “Permission to speak freely, sir?” Shalenko nodded once; the President’s determination on never shooting the messenger had sunk in to every level, with the possible exception of the lowest ranks. “My unit needs to continue fighting, not sitting around while others die; we could take an airport in France or…”
“That will be accomplished by smaller groups, those that have been left intact,” Shalenko said. France had two armies left, one of which was tied down in the south; it would be crushed once France itself had fallen. “The insurgency in France destroyed several airports and the French have been unable to rebuild or repair most of the damage.”
He shrugged. “We will be taking over airports and using them, but we will be doing that with more precision than we were doing in Germany and Poland,” he continued. The trick would be to ensure that the Algerians had their backs firmly stabbed before they realised what was happening; timing would be everything. “your unit will have another mission, fairly soon.”
Aliyev looked hopeful. “Ostend?”
Shalenko smiled. Had the news spread that rapidly? “No,” he said. “Ostend may have to be handled by the air force alone, although we will be looking for places where we can insert paratroopers if we can; the British have had two days to dig in and the Royal Marines are experts in such combat. It’s not a pleasant thought – that’s what Hitler did wrong as well – but there may be no choice unless the units probing into the Netherlands can reach Ostend in time to slam the door firmly shut.”
He rolled his eyes. “And there are other problems as well,” he admitted. It was important that Aliyev understood what was at stake. “Wear and tear on the equipment as well, for one. If we can smash the French force in the north, we’ve won in France; the FSB can finish the task of securing France. It’s butcher’s work; the bastards will enjoy it. Once we can take a breath, we can prepare for the next part of the operation - Operation Morskoi Lev.”