Christopher Nuttall - The Fall of Night

“We are ready to deploy on your command,” Matthews informed him. Technically, Matthews wasn't in the same chain of command, but Major-General McLachlan had been very clear on the subject. Matthews would serve under Robinson as long as they were guarding the godforsaken hill. “One of the missiles developed a fault, but the others all read out as working fine.”

Robinson eyed the missile that two of Matthews’ crew were carrying away from the trucks. “Is that thing safe?”

“We removed the warhead and the propellant,” Matthews said. “The problem is in the computer chips that are supposed to guide it to its target; they weren’t working right.”

Robinson scowled. It seemed that the more advanced equipment became, the more things that could go wrong… and were impossible to fix on the spot. The missile would be sent back to Germany, where the technicians would try to find a replacement for the computer chips and send it back to them. Missiles were expensive; no one would just junk it.

“Good,” Robinson said absently. “You have to deploy now, then we can report back and hopefully spend a couple of weeks getting bored out here.”

The camp slowly took shape. The entire area was searched twice, finding nothing, but a handful of birds and wild animals, and then the real work began. Sergeant Inglehart organised it all, from sensors designed to detect anyone approaching to organising regular patrols around the outskirts of the camp. Robinson would have been happier with a fence or something that would keep ramblers out, but EUROFOR Command had refused to allow permission; they would just have to be careful. The first mobile radar was deployed on the hill, an insulated cable leading down from the hill towards the CADS systems, limiting the amount of electronic emissions that an enemy could pick up. Robinson wasn’t impressed; the radar itself would attract attention, a perfect case of penny wise, pound foolish.

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Matthews assured him, when he said that out loud. “The radar itself is a target, sure, but only when the radar is activated. In an ideal world, we would be taking readings from ground-based radars further to the west and merely shooting at the targets using their readings. If we do use the radar, and we are going to have to use it, any missile launched at it will not take out the actual missile launchers we have here, while we can move them to prevent the enemy from locking on to their positions.”

He tapped a command into the mobile command system. “Now… let’s see.”

The display lit up, seemingly reporting hundreds of unknown targets. The computer went to work, tracking IFF signals and microburst transmissions, identifying nearly a hundred targets as civilian airliners from Russia, Germany and Sweden. Other aircraft proved to be Polish helicopters or Eurofighters; the Russians themselves were flying a Combat Air Patrol of MIG-41s — Flatpacks, according to the western designation — a hundred kilometres to the east.

“There’s more traffic than I would have expected,” Matthews commented. “Of course, with all the instability in Ukraine, a lot of traffic has been routed over Russia and then over Belarus, rather than risk flying directly over Ukraine and panicking someone. It doesn’t make sense, but what do you expect?”

Robinson shrugged. “Do we have a direct link into the EURONET?”

Matthews nodded. “Yep,” he said cheerfully. His face twisted into a smile. “We’re getting data from them and they’re getting data from us.”

“Good,” Robinson said. “I want you to maintain a permanent watch on events, with at least three people on duty at any one time, understand?”

Matthews’s face twisted slightly, Robinson could almost read the thought in his mind. Asshole . It didn’t matter; they were deployed to maintain the safety of Poland and even though neither of them really expected trouble, he was determined to ensure that it wouldn’t manage to surprise him, should trouble actually come knocking.

“I understand, sir,” Matthews said. More Russian aircraft blinked into existence on the display, low-level anti-insurgency aircraft, deployed in Belarus. “We will treat this as a military situation.”

Robinson quickly inspected the camp, finding it excellent; Sergeant Inglehart had outdone himself. The conditions would be Spartan, but they would be tolerable until they had to move to Warsaw, or took leave when some new detachment was spared. He had been informed that EUROFOR intended to rotate them pretty regularly, but he would believe that when he saw it; EUROFOR POLAND had too many tasks and nowhere like enough men to handle them all. He shrugged and made plans to engage in more training and exploration of the surrounding area tomorrow, then started to compose an electronic message to Hazel in his head.

He missed her already.

The Polish guards at the main gate into the military camp were brisk, but firm; a female guard inspected every last inch of Caroline Morgan’s body before allowing her access to the camp. She had had boyfriends, even one who had had an ass fetish, who hadn’t explored her body with such thoroughness. The privacy hadn’t made it any easier to take; she had been all-to-aware that there were armed guards outside who would burst in if she made any noise at all.

It was odd, she reflected, as she dressed again under the watchful eye of the Polish guard. The Poles provided most of the security for EUROFOR… and they were utterly paranoid when it came to maintaining security, even to the point of making themselves unpopular with the press by sending back any reporter who gave away something that enemies could use against EUROFOR. They were desperate to keep their country safe, even if it meant annoying the reporters; Caroline wasn't sure if that was admirable, or just irritating.

“Right this way,” her escort said, and led her though a maze of Soviet-era buildings. The camp had been built back when the Red Army had occupied the country… and the Poles hadn’t improved it much, even if some enterprising Polish officer had planted some apple trees in the middle of the camp. Soldiers, some of them in full battle dress, were everywhere, all of them trying to organise EUROFOR into something that could actually put out more than one regional fire at once. She’d heard enough to know that rapid reaction forces had been flown all over Poland at the drop of a hat, only to get there too late, or be called back before anything could actually happen. “Major-General McLachlan is in this building here.”

There was a Union Jack in front of the building, marking it out as a British building; it was something that the European Defence Commission hated. They had an uphill fight to prevent it from happening; she could see a French and Dutch flag just in the camp alone, and there were detachments from nearly a dozen nations in Poland. The bureaucrats would probably win in the end, she was sure, but it was surprisingly good to see all of the flags. She wasn't sure why.

“You must be Caroline Morgan,” Major-General McLachlan said. “Welcome to Camp Three.”

Caroline smiled. “Camp Three?”

“All the proposals for names were shot down,” McLachlan said. “Some places have names that they couldn’t get rid of easily — Rheindahlen Military Complex, for example — but this place was soulless even back in the days of the Red Army. I understand that you wanted to be attached to this unit?” Caroline nodded. “Who did you piss off to get that job?”

Caroline laughed. “My supervisor wanted some background impressions on how EUROFOR was shaping up as a military machine,” she said. It was truthful, as far as it went; the BBC needed to prepare itself for the coming elections. The people of Britain were hungry for news and the BBC had to provide or lose even more of its market. “I got the short straw.”